iiililePliiiwS^ 


™E         r; 

^^  MANXMAN  ®^ 

£«  HALL  CAINE  fS^ 


m 


<  ; 


i         u' 

•^s 

;:•■';*; 

i       '> 

,^^  /  s^  ^ 

1 

■■>/,'■ 

';.!\.' 

A '  ^;. 

i'V 

'■'■/•; 

^ 

^ 

A 

f.'  * 

^'• 

-if'  ■ 

i 

%j^ 

' 

Sii 

;l.- 

1 

^|:, 

''     ^     ! 

^^Vv'. 

;/<;  • 

Ik 

^^x' 
•;^# 

te"> 

" 

'.  fer 


Uniform  with  '^  The  Manxman ^ 

The  Deemster,  a  Romance  of  the  Isle  of  Man. 
By  Hall  Caine,  author  of  "  The  Manxman," 
"  Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon,"  etc.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

"Grandly  conceived  and  grandly  executed." — London  Acad- 
emy. 

"  It  is  a  marvelous  study  ...  by  the  creative  power  of 
genius."  —London  Literary  World. 

"Fascinates  the  mind  like  the  gathering  and  bursting  of  a 
storm." — Illustrated Lo?ido7i  News. 

"  Hall  Caine  has  already  given  us  some  verj'  strong  and  fine 
work,  and  '  The  Deemster '  is  a  story  of  uniisual  power.  Certain 
passages  and  chapters  have  an  intensely  dramatic  grasp,  and  hold 
the  fascinated  reader  with  a  force  rarely  excited  nowadays  in  litera- 
ture.' — \ezu  York  Critic. 

"  The  unmistakable  fire  of  genius  blazes  in  this  weird  and 
aflfectine  tale." — Chicas^o  'I ribuvc. 

"  In  this  novel  a  difficult  subject  of  high  traeic  dignity  has  been 
most  adequntely  dealt  with  fmm  a  high  artistic  standpoint  and 
with  great  simplicity  and  directness— and  this  notwithstanding  th.at 
the  theme  is  an  exceedingly  complex  one." — Philadelphia  Tele- 
gyaph. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


THE    MANXMAN 


A   NOyEL 


BY 


HALL  CAINE 

AUTHOR   OF   THE    DEEMSTER,     CAiH'n    DAVY's    HONEYMOON, 
THE    SCAPEGOAT,    THE    BONDSMAN,    ETC. 


SECOND   EDITION 


NEW    YORK 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1894 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


ElECTROTYPED  and  PRINTEn 
AT  THE   APPJ^TON  ?PESS,  U.'S  A.- 


CONTENTS 


PART 

PAGE 

I.— Boys  Together      .... 

1 

II.— Boy  and  Girl         ...» 

61 

III.— Man  and  Woman    .... 

.  152 

IV. — Man  and  Wife       .        .        o        . 

255 

v.— Man  and  Man         .... 

.337 

VI.— Man  and  God         .... 

430 

(iii) 


939S8'4 


THE  MANXMAN. 

PART   I. 
BOYS  TOGETHER, 


Old  Deemster  Christian  of  Ballawliaine  was  a  hard  man 
— hard  on  the  outside,  at  all  events.  They  called  hira  Iron 
Christian,  and  people  said,  '*  Don't  tui'n  that  iron  hand  against 
you."  Yet  his  character  was  stamped  with  nobleness  as  well 
as  strength.  He  was  not  a  man  of  icy  nature,  but  he  loved  to 
gather  icicles  about  him.  There  was  fire  enough  underneath, 
at  which  he  warmed  his  old  heart  when  alone,  but  he  liked 
the  air  to  be  congealed  about  his  face.  He  was  a  man  of  a 
closed  soul.  One  had  to  wrench  open  the  dark  chamber 
where  he  kept  his  feelings  ;  but  the  man  who  had  done  that 
had  uncovered  his  nakedness,  and  he  cut  him  off  for  ever. 
That  was  how  it  happened  with  his  son,  the  father  of  Philip. 

He  had  two  sous ;  the  elder  was  an  impetuous  ci'eature,  a 
fiery  spirit,  one  of  the  masterful  souls  who  want  the  restraint 
of  the  curb  if  they  are  not  to  hurry  headlong  into  the  abyss. 
Old  Deemster  Christian  had  called  this  boy  Thomas  Wilson, 
after  the  serene  saint  who  had  once  been  Bishop  of  Man.  He 
was  intended,  however,  for  the  law,  not  for  the  Church.  The 
office  of  Deemster  never  has  been  and  never  can  be  hereditary ; 
yet  the  Christians  of  Ballawliaine  had  been  Deemsters  through 
six  generations,  and  old  Iron  Christian  expected  that  Thomas 
Wilson  Christian  would  succeed  him.  But  there  was  enough 
uncertainty  about  the  succession  to  make  merit  of  more  value 
than  precedent  in  the  selection,  and  so  the  old  man  had  brought 
up  his  son  to  the  English  bar,  and  afterwards  called  him  to 
practise  in  the  Manx  one.  The  young  fellow  had  not  alto- 
CD 


3-.^       •..•;:.::  ;    the  manxman. 

.goU>er.4'/>wja5'cle<l  .4;^is  father's  endeavours.  During  his  resi- 
rdOnc'S  *m  ^IgJan'd/'h'e  'had  acquired  certain  modern  doctrines 
which  were  highly  obnoxious  to  the  old  Deemster.  New 
views  on  property,  new  ideas  about  woman  and  marriage,  nrw 
theories  concerning  religion  (always  re-christened  supersti- 
tion), the  usual  barnacles  of  young  vessels  fresh  from  unknown 
waters;  but  the  old  man  was  no  shipwright  in  harbour  v.ho 
has  learnt  the  art  of  removing  them  without  injury  to  the 
hull.  The  Deemster  knew  these  notions  when  he  met  with 
them  in  the  English  newspapers.  There  was  something  awe- 
some in  their  effect  on  his  stay-at-home  imagination,  as  of 
vices  confusing  and  difficult  to  true  men  that  walk  steadily; 
but,  above  all,  very  far  off,  over  the  mountains  and  across  the 
sea,  like  distant  cities  of  Sodom,  only  waiting  for  Sodom's 
doom.  And  yet,  lo  !  here  they  were  in  a  twinkling,  shunted 
and  shot  into  his  own  house  and  his  own  stackyard. 

''  I  suppose  now,"  he  said,  with  a  knowing  look, ''  you  think 
Jack  as  good  as  his  master  ? " 

"  No,  sir,"  ^aid  his  son  gravely;  " generally  much  better." 

Iron  Christian  altered  Ms  will.  To  his  elder  son  he  left 
only  a  life-interest  in  Ballawhaine.  "  That  boy  will  be  doing 
something,"  he  said,  and  thus  he  guarded  against  consequences. 
He  could  not  help  it;  he  was  ashamed,  but  he  could  not  con- 
quer his  shame — the  fiery  old  man  began  to  nurse  a  grievance 
against  his  son. 

The  two  sons  of  the  Deemster  were  like  the  inside  and  out- 
side of  a  bowl,  and  that  bowl  was  the  Deemster  himself.  If 
Thomas  Wilson  the  elder  had  his  father's  inside  fire  and  soft- 
ness, Peter,  the  younger,  had  his  father's  outside  ice  and  iron. 
Peter  was  little  and  almost  misshapen,  with  a  pair  of  shoulders 
that  seemed  to  be  trj'ing  to  meet  over  a  hollow  chest  and  limbs 
that  splayed  away  into  vacancy.  And  if  Nature  had  been 
grudging  with  him,  his  father  was  not  more  kind.  He  had 
been  brought  up  to  no  profession,  and  his  expectations  were 
limited  to  a  yearly  charge  out  of  his  brother's  property.  His 
talk  was  bitter,  his  voice  cold,  he  laughed  little,  and  had  never 
been  known  to  cry.     He  had  many  things  against  him. 

Besides  these  sons,  Deemster  Christian  had  a  girl  in  his 
household,  but  to  his  own  consciousness  the  fact  was  only  a 
kind  of  peradventure.  She  was  his  niece,  the  child  of  his  only 
brother,  who  had  died  in  earlv  manhood.    Her  name  was  Ann 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  3 

Charlotte  cle  la  Tremouille,  called  after  the  lady  of  Rush  en,  for 
the  family  of  Christian  had  their  share  of  the  heroic  that  is  in 
all  men.  She  had  fine  eyes,  a  weak  mouth,  and  great  timidity. 
Gentle  airs  floated  always  about  her,  and  a  sort  of  nervous 
brightness  twdnkled  over  her,  as  of  a  glen  with  the  sun  flick- 
ering through.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  child  of 
twelve,  and  in  the  house  of  her  uncle  and  her  cousins  she  had 
been  brought  uj)  among  men  and  boys. 

One  day  Peter  drew  the  Deemster  aside  and  told  him  (v/ith 
expressions  of  shame,  interlarded  v/ith  praises  of  his  own 
acuteness)  a  story  of  his  brother.  It  was  about  a  girl.  Her 
name  was  Mona  Crellin;  she  lived  on  the  hill  at  Ballure 
House,  half  a  mile  south  of  Ramsey,  and  was  daughter  of  a 
man  called  Billy  Ballure,  a  retired  sea-captain,  and  hail-fellow- 
well-met  with  all  the  jovial  spirits  of  the  town. 

There  w^as  much  noise  and  outcry,  and  old  Iron  sent  for 
his  son. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  ? "  he  cried,  looking  him  down.  "  A 
woman  ?  So  that's  what  your  fine  learning  comes  to,  eh  ? 
Take  care,  sir!  take  care!  No  son  of  mine  shall  disgrace  him- 
self.    The  day  he  does  that  he  will  be  put  to  the  door." 

Thomas  held  himself  in  with  a  great  effort. 

"  Disgrace  ? "  he  said.    "  What  disgrace,  sir,  if  you  please  ? " 

''What  disgrace,  sir  ?"  repeated  the  Deemster,  mocking  his 
son  in  a  mincing  treble.  Then  he  roared,  ''  Behaving  dislion- 
ourably  to  a  poor  girl — that  what's  disgrace,  sir  !  Isn't  it 
enough  ?  eh  ?  eh  ? " 

"  More  than  enough,"  said  the  young  man.  "  But  who  is 
doing  it  ?    I'm  not." 

"  Then  you're  doing  worse.  Did  I  say  w^orse  ?  Of  course 
I  said  worse.  Worse,  sir,  worse  !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Worse  ! 
You  are  trapsing  around  Ballure,  and  letting  that  poor  girl 
take  notions.  I'll  have  no  more  of  it.  Is  this  what  I  sent  j^ou 
to  England  for  ?  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  j^ourself  ?  Keep 
your  place,  sir;  keep  your  place.  A  poor  girl's  a  poor  giil, 
and  a  Deemster's  a  Deemster." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  suddenly  firing  up,  "and  a  man's 
a  man.  As  for  the  shame,  I  need  be  ashamed  of  nothing  that 
is  not  shameful ;  and  the  best  proof  I  can  give  you  that  I  mean 
no  dishonour  by  the  girl  is  that  I  intend  to  marry  her." 

"  What  ?    You  intend  to— what  ?    Did  I  hear " 


4  THE  MANXMAN. 

The  old  Deemster  turned  his  good  ear  towards  his  son's 
face,  and  the  young"  man  repeated  his  threat.  Never  fear  ! 
No  poor  girl  should  be  misled  by  him.  He  was  above  all 
foolish  conventions. 

Old  Iron  Christian  was  dumbfounded.  He  gasped,  he 
stared,  he  stammered,  and  then  fell  on  his  son  with  hot  re- 
proaches. 

"  What  ?  Your  wife  ?  Wife  ?  That  trollop  !— that  minx  ! 
that — and  daughter  of  that  sot,  too,  that  old  rip,  that  rowdy 

blatherskite — that And  my  own  son  is  to  lift  his  hand  to 

cut  his  throat  !  Yes,  sir,  cut  his  throat  !  And  I  am  to  stand 
by  !     No,  no  !     I  say  no,  sir,  no  !  " 

The  young  man  made  some  further  protest,  but  it  was  lost 
in  his  father's  clamour. 

"You  will,  though?  You  will?  Then  your  hat  is  your 
house,  sir.     Take  to  it— take  to  it  ! " 

"No  need  to  tell  me  twice,  father." 

"Away  then — away  to  your  woman— your  jade!  God, 
keep  my  hands  off  him  ! " 

The  old  man  lifted  his  clenched  fist,  but  his  son  had  flung 
out  of  the  room.  It  was  not  the  Deemster  only  who  feared 
he  might  lay  hands  on  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 

"Stop  !  come  back,  you  dog  !  Listen  !  IVe  not  done  yet. 
Stop  !  you  hotheaded  rascal,  stop  !  Can't  you  hear  a  man 
out  then  ?  Come  back  !  Thomas  Wilson,  come  back,  sir  ! 
Thomas  !  Thomas  !  Tom  !    Where  is  he  ?    Where's  the  boy  ? " 

Old  Iron  Christian  had  made  after  his  son  bareheaded 
down  to  the  road,  shouting  his  name  in  a  broken  roar,  but  the 
young  man  was  gone.  Then  he  went  back  slowiy,  his  grey 
hair  playing  in  the  wind.  He  was  all  iron  outside,  but  all 
father  within. 

That  day  the  Deemster  altered  his  will  a  second  time,  and 
his  elder  son  was  disinherited. 


II. 

Peter  succeeded  in  due  course  to  the  estate  of  Balla- 
whaine,  but  he  was  not  a  lawyer,  and  the  line  of  the  Deemsters 
Christian  was  broken. 

Meantime  Thomas  Wilson  Christian  had  been  married  to 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  5 

Mona  Crellin  without  delay.  He  loved  her,  hut  he  had  been 
afraid  of  her  ignorance,  afraid  also  (notwithstanding-  his  prin- 
ciples) of  the  difference  in  their  social  rank,  and  had  half  in- 
tended to  give  her  up  when  his  father's  reproaches  had  come 
to  fire  his  anger  and  to  spur  his  courage.  As  soon  as  she 
became  his  wife  he  realised  tlie  price  he  had  paid  for  her. 
Happiness  could  not  come  of  such  a  beginning.  He  had 
broken  every  tie  in  making  the  one  which  brought  him  down. 
The  rich  disowned  him,  and  the  poor  lost  respect  for  him. 

"  It's  positively  indecent,"  said  one.  "  It's  potatoes  marry- 
ing herrings,"  said  another.  It  was  little  better  than  hun- 
ger marrying  thirst. 

In  the  general  downfall  of  his  fame  his  profession  failed 
him.  He  lost  heart  and  ambition.  His  philosophy  did  not 
stand  him  in  good  stead,  for  it  had  no  value  in  the  market  to 
which  he  brought  it.  Thus,  day  by  day,  he  sank  deeper  into 
the  ooze  of  a  wrecked  and  wasted  life. 

The  wife  did  not  turn  out  well.  She  was  a  fretful  person, 
with  a  good  face,  a  bad  shape,  a  vacant  mind,  and  a  great  deal 
of  vanity.  She  had  liked  her  husband  a  little  as  a  lover,  but 
when  she  saw  that  her  marriage  brought  her  nobody's  envy, 
she  fell  into  a  long  fit  of  the  vapours.  Eventually  she  made 
herself  believe  that  she  was  an  ill-used  person.  She  never 
ceased  to  complain  of  her  fate.  Everybody  treated  her  as  if 
she  had  laid  plans  for  her  husband's  ruin. 

The  husband  continued  to  love  her,  but  little  by  little  he 
grew  to  despise  her  also.  When  he  made  his  first  plunge,  he 
had  prided  himself  on  indulging  an  heroic  impulse.  He  was 
not  going  to  deliver  a  good  woman  "to  dishonour  because  she 
seemed  to  be  an  obstacle  to  his  success.  But  she  had  never 
realised  his  sacrifice.  She  did  not  appear  to  understand  that 
he  might  have  been  a  great  man  in  the  island,  but  that  love 
and  honour  had  held  him  back.  Her  ignorance  Avas  pitiful, 
and  he  was  ashamed  of  it.  In  earning  the  contempt  of  othere 
he  had  not  saved  himself  from  self -contempt. 

The  old  sailor  died  suddenly  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness  at  a 
fair,  and  husband  and  wife  came  into  possession  of  his  house 
and  property  at  Ballure.  This  did  not  improve  the  relations 
between  them.  The  woman  perceived  that  their  positions  were 
reversed.  Slie  was  the  bread-bringer  now.  One  day,  at  a 
slight  that  her  husband's  people  had  put  upon  her  in  the  street, 


G  TIJK   MANXMAN. 

she  reminded  him.  in  order  to  re-establish  her  wounded  vanity, 
that  but  for  her  and  hers  he  would  not  have  so  much  as  a  roof 
to  cover  him. 

Yet  the  man  continued  to  love  her  in  spite  of  all.  And  she 
was  not  at  first  a  degraded  being.  At  times  she  was  bright  and 
cheerful,  and,  except  in  the  woi^t  spells  of  her  vapours,  she 
was  a  brisk  and  busy  woman.  The  house  was  sweet  and  home- 
ly. There  was  only  one  thing  to  drive  him  away  from  it,  but 
that  was  the  greatest  thing  of  all.  Nevertheless  they  had  their 
cheerful  hours  together. 

A  child  was  born,  a  bo}'.  and  they  called  him  Philip.  He 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end  between  them ;  the  iron  stay  that 
held  them  together  and  yet  apart.  The  father  remembered  his 
misfortunes  in  the  presence  of  his  sou,  and  the  mother  was 
stung  afresh  by  the  recollection  of  disappointed  hopes.  The 
boy  was  the  true  heir  of  Ballawhaine,  but  the  inheritance  was 
lost  to  him  by  his  father's  fault  and  he  had  nothing. 

Philip  grew  to  be  a  winsome  lad.  There  was  something 
sweet  and  amiable  and  big-hearted,  and  even  almost  great,  in 
him.  One  day  the  father  sat  in  the  garden  by  the  mighty 
fuchsia-tree  that  grows  on  the  lawn,  watching  his  little  fair- 
haired  son  play  at  marbles  on  the  path  with  two  big  lads  whom 
he  had  enticed  out  of  the  road,  and  another  more  familiar 
playmate — the  little  barefooted  boy  Peter,  from  the  cottage  by 
the  water-trough.  At  first  Philip  lost,  and  with  grunts  of  sat- 
isfaction the  big  ones  promptly  pocketed  their  gains.  Then 
Philip  won,  and  little  curly  Peter  was  stripped  naked,  and  his 
lip  began  to  fall.  At  that  Philip  paused,  held  his  head  aside, 
and  considered,  and  then  •said  quite  briskly,  "Peter  hadn't  a 
fair  chance  that  time — here,  let's  give  him  another  go." 

The  father's  throat  swelled,  and  he  went  indoors  to  the 
mother  and  said,  ''  I  think — perhaps  I'm  to  blame — but  some- 
how I  think  our  boy  isn't  like  other  boys.  What  do  you  say  ? 
Foolish  ?  May  be  so,  may  be  so  I  No  difference  ?  Well,  no — 
no!" 

But  deep  down  in  the  secret  i)lace  of  his  heart,  Thomas 
Wilson  Christian,  broken  man,  uprooted  tree,  wrecked  craft  in 
the  mud  and  slime,  began  to  cherish  a  fond  idea.  The  son 
would  regain  all  that  his  father  had  lost  !  He  had  gifts,  and 
he  should  be  bniught  up  to  the  law  ;  a  large  nature,  and  he 
should  be  helped  to  develop  it;  a  fine  face  which  all  must  love. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  7 

a  sense  of  justice,  and  a  j^Tcat  wealth  of  tlie  power  of  radiating 
happiness.  Deemster  ?  Why  not  ?  Ballawhaine  ?  Who  could 
tell  ?  The  biggest,  noblest,  greatest  of  all  Manxmen  !  God 
knows  ! 

Only — only  he  must  be  taught  to  fly  from  his  father's  dan- 
gers. Love  ?  Then  let  him  love  where  he  can  also  respect — 
but  never  outside  his  own  sphere.  The  island  was  too  little 
for  that.  To  love  and  to  despise  was  to  suffer  the  torments  of 
the  damned. 

Nourishing  these  dreams,  the  poor  man  began  to  be  tor- 
tured by  every  caress  the  mother  gave  her  son,  and  irritated 
by  every  word  she  spoke  to  him.  Her  grammar  w^as  good 
enough  for  himself,  and  the  exuberant  caresses  of  her  maudlin 
moods  were  even  sometimes  pleasant,  but  the  boy  must  be  de- 
graded by  neither. 

The  woman  did  not  reach  to  these  high  thoughts,  but  she 
was  not  slow  to  interpret  the  casual  byplay  in  which  they 
found  expression.  Her  husband  was  taiching  her  son  to  dis- 
respeck  her.  She  vrouidn't  have  thought  it  of  him — she 
wouldn't  really.  But  it  was  always  the  way  when  a  plain 
practical  woman  married  on  the  quality.  Imperence  and  dis- 
respeck— that's  the  capers  !  Imperence  and  disrespeck  from 
the  ones  that's  doing  nothing  and  behoulden  to  you  for  every- 
thing.    It  was  shocking  !     It  was  disthressing  ! 

In  such  outbursts  would  her  jealousy  taunt  him  with  his 
poverty,  revile  him  for  his  idleness,  and  square  accounts  with 
him  for  the  manifest  preference  of  the  boy.  He  could  bear 
them  with  patience  when  they  were  alone,  but  in  Philip's 
presence  they  were  as  gall  and  wormwood,  and  whips  and 
scorpions. 

"  Go,  my  lad,  go,"  lie  would  sometinies  whimper,  and  hustle 
the  boy  out  of  the  v/ay. 

"  No,"  the  woman  v,^ould  cry,  "  stop  and  see  the  man  your 
father  is." 

And  the  father  would  mutter,  "  He  might  see  the  woman 
his  mother  is  as  well." 

But  w^hen  she  had  pinned  them  together,  and  the  boy  had 
to  hear  her  out,  the  man  would  drop  his  forehead  on  the  table 
and  break  into  groans  and  tears.  Then  the  woman  would 
change  quite  suddenly,  and  put  her  arms  about  him  and  kiss 
him  and  weep  over  him.     He  could  defend  himself  from  nei- 


8  THE   MANXMAN. 

ther  her  insults  nor  her  embraces.  In  spite  of  everything  he 
loved  her.  That  was  where  the  bitterness  of  the  e^al  lay.  But 
for  the  love  he  bore  her,  he  might  have  got  her  off  his  back 
and  been  his  own  man  once  more.  He  would  make  peace  with 
her  and  kiss  her  again,  and  they  would  both  kiss  the  boy,  and 
be  tender,  and  even  cheerful. 

Philip  was  still  a  child,  but  he  saw  the  relations  of  his  par- 
ents, and  in  his  own  way  he  understood  everything.  He 
loved  his  father  best,  but  he  did  not  hate  his  mother.  She 
was  nearly  always  affectionate,  though  often  jealous  of  the 
father's  greater  love  and  care  for  him,  and  sometimes  irritable 
from  that  cause  alone.  But  the  frequent  broils  between  them 
were  like  blows  that  left  scars  on  his  body.  He  slept  in  a 
cot  in  the  same  room,  and  he  would  cover  up  his  head  in 
the  bedclothes  at  night  with  a  feeling  of  fear  and  physical 
pain. 

A  man  cannot  fight  against  himself  for  long.  That  deadly 
enemy  is  certain  to  slay.  When  Philip  was  six  years  old  his 
father  lay  sick  of  his  last  sickness.  The  wife  had  fallen  into 
habits  of  intemperance  by  this  time,  and  stage  by  stage  she 
had  descended  to  the  condition  of  an  utterly  degraded  woman. 
There  was  something  to  excuse  her.  She  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  the  great  stakes  of  life  ;  she  had  earned  disgrace 
where  she  had  looked  for  admiration.  She  was  vain,  and 
could  not  bear  misfortune ;  and  she  had  no  deep  well  of  love 
from  which  to  drink  when  the  fount  of  her  pride  ran  dry.  If 
her  husband  had  indulged  her  with  a  little  pity,  everything 
might  have  gone  along  more  easily.  But  he  had  only  loved 
her  and  been  ashamed.  And  now  that  he  lay  near  to  his 
death,  the  love  began  to  ebb  and  the  shame  to  deepen  into 
dread. 

He  slept  little  at  night,  and  as  often  as  he  closed  his  eyes 
certain  voices  of  mocking  and  reproach  seemed  to  be  con- 
stantly humming  in  his  ears, 

''Your  son  !"  thej"  would  cry.  "What  is  to  become  of 
him?"  Your  dreams!  Your  great  dreams!  Deemster! 
Ballawhaine  !  God  knows  what  1  You  are  leaving  the  boy  ; 
who  is  to  bring  him  up  ?    His  mother  ?    Think  of  it  ! " 

At  last  a  ray  of  pale  sunshine  broke  on  the  sleepless  wres- 
tler with  the  night,  and  he  became  almost  happy.  ''I'll  speak 
to  the  boy,"  he  thought.     "I  will  tell  him  my  own  history, 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  9 

concealing  nothing.  Yes,  I  will  tell  him  of  my  own  father 
also,  God  rest  him,  the  stern  old  man — severe,  yet  just." 

An  opportunity  soon  befell.  It  was  late  at  night — very 
late.  The  woman  was  sleeping  off  a  bout  of  intemperance 
somewhere  below  ;  and  the  boy,  with  the  innocence  and  ig- 
norance of  his  3^ears  in  all  that  the  solemn  time  foreboded, 
was  bustling  about  the  room  with  mighty  eagerness,  because 
he  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  in  bed. 

''  I'm  staying-up  to  intend  on  you,  father,"  said  the  boy. 

The  father  answered  with  a  sigh. 

"  Don't  you  asturb  yourself,  father.     I'll  intend  on  j^ou." 

The  father's  sigh  deepened  to  a  moan. 

"If  you  want  anything  'aticular,  just  call  me;  d'ye  see, 
father?" 

And  away  went  the  boy  like  a  gleam  of  light.  Presently 
he  came  back,  leaping  like  the  dawn.  He  was  carrying,  inse- 
curely, a  jug  of  poppy -head  and  camomile,  wdiich  hrad  been 
prescribed  as  a  lotion. 

"Poppy  heads,  father!  Poppy -heads  is  good,  I  can  tell 
ye." 

"Why  arn't  j^ou  in  bed,  child?"  said  the  father.  "You 
must  be  tired." 

"No,  I'm  not  tired,  father.  I  was  just  feeling  a  bit  of 
tired,  and  then  I  took  a  smell  of  poppy-heads  and  away  went 
the  tiredness  to  Jericho.     They  is  good." 

The  little  vrhite  head  was  glinting  off  again  w^hen  the 
father  called  it  back. 

"  Come  here,  my  boy." 

The  child  went  up  to  the  bedside,  and  the  father  ran  his 
fingers  lovingly  through  the  long  fair  hair. 

"  Do  you  think,  Philip,  that  tw^enty,  thirty,  forty  years 
hence,  when  you  are  a  man — aye,  a  big  man,  little  one— do  you 
think  you  v/ill  remember  what  I  shall  say  to  you  now  ? " 

"  Why,  yes,  father,  if  it's  anything  'aticular,  and  if  it  isn't 
you  can  amind  me  of  it,  can't  you,  father  ? " 

The  father  shook  his  head.  "  I  shall  not  be  here  then,  my 
boy.     I  am  going  away " 

"  Going  away,  father  ?    May  I  come  too  ? " 

"Ah  !  I  wish  you  could,  little  one.  Yes,  truly  I  almost 
wish  you  could." 

"  Then  you'll  let  me  go  with  you,  father  !     Oh,  I  am  glad, 


10  THE  MANXMAN. 

fatlier."  x\nd  the  boy  began  to  caper  and  dance,  to  go  down 
on  all  fours,  and  leap  about  the  floor  like  a  frog. 

The  father  fell  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  heaving  breast. 
Vain  !  vain  !  What  was  the  use  of  speaking  ?  The  child's 
outlook  was  life  ;  his  own  was  death  ;  they  had  no  common 
ground  ;  they  spoke  different  tongues.  And,  after  all,  how 
could  he  suffer  the  sweet  innocence  of  the  child's  soul  to  look 
down  into  the  stained  and  scarred  chamber  of  his  ruined 
heart  ? 

"You  don't  understand  me,  Philip.  I  inean  that  I  am  go- 
ing—to die.  Yes,  darling,  and,  only  that  I  am  leaving  you 
behind,  I  should  be  glad  to  go.  My  life  has  been  wasted, 
Philip.  In  the  time  to  come,  when  men  speak  of  your  father, 
you  will  be  ashamed.  Perhaps  you  will  not  remember  then 
that  whatever  he  was  he  was  a  good  father  to  you,  for  at  least  he 
loved  you  dearly.  Well,  I  must  needs  bow  to  the  will  of  God, 
but  if  I  WDuld  only  hope  that  you  would  live  to  restore  my  name 
when  I  am  gone.  .  .  .  Philip,  are  you— don  t  cry,  my  darling. 
There,  tliere,  kiss  me.  We'll  say  no  more  about  it  then.  Per- 
haps it's  not  true,  although  father  tolded  you  ?  Well,  perhaps 
not.  And  now  undress  and  slip  into  bed  before  mother 
comes.  See,  there's  your  night-dress  at  the  foot  of  the  crib. 
Wants  some  buttons,  does  it  ?  Never  mind — in  with  you — 
that's  a  boy." 

Impossible,  impossible  !  And  perhaps  unnecessary.  Who 
should  say  ?  Young  as  the  child  was,  he  might  never  forget 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard.  Some  day  it  must  have  its 
meaning  for  him.  Thus  the  father  comforted  himself.  Those 
jangling  quai'rels  which  had  often  scorched  his  brain  like 
iron — the  memory  of  their  abject  scenes  came  to  him  then, 
with  a  sort  of  bleeding  solace  ! 

Meanwhile,  with  little  catching  sobs,  which  he  struggled 
to  repress,  the  boy  lay  down  in  his  crib.  When  half-way 
gone  towards  the  mists  of  the  land  of  sleep,  he  started  up  sud- 
denly, and  called  "  Good  night,  father,"  and  his  father  an- 
swered him  ''Good  night." 

Towards  thi^ee  o'clock  the  next  morning  there  was  great 
commotion  in  the  house.  The  servant  was  scurrying  up  and 
downstairs,  and  the  mistress,  wringing  her  hands,  was 
trpmping  to  and  fro  in  the  sick-room,  crj'ing  in  a  tone  of 
astonishment,  as  if   the  thought  had  stolen  upon  her  un- 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  H 

awares,  "Why,  he's  going!  How  didn't  somebody  tell  me 
before?" 

The  eyes  of  the  sinking  man  were  on  the  crib.  "Philip," 
he  faltered.  They  lifted  the  boy  out  of  his  bed,  and  brought 
him  in  his  night-dress  to  his  father's  side  ;  and  the  father 
twisted  about  and  took  him  into  his  arms,  still  half  asleep 
and  yawning.  Then  the  mother,  recovering  from  the  stu- 
pidity of  her  surprise,  broke  into  paroxysms  of  weeping,  and 
fell  over  her  husband's  breast  and  kissed  and  kissed  him. 

For  once  her  kisses  had  no  response.  The  man  was  dying 
miserably,  for  he  v/as  thinking  of  her  and  of  the  boy.  Some- 
times he  babbled  over  Philip  in  a  soft,  inarticulate  gurgle  ; 
sometimes  he  looked  up  at  his  wife's  face  with  a  stony  stare, 
and  then  he  clung  the  closer  to  the  boy,  as  if  he  would  never 
let  him  go.  The  dark  hour  came,  and  still  he  held  the  boy  in 
his  arms.  They  had  to  release  the  child  at  last  from  his  fath- 
er's dying  grip. 

The  dead  of  the  night  was  gone  by  this  time,  and  the  day 
was  at  the  point  of  dawn  ;  the  sparrows  in  the  eaves  were 
twittering,  and  the  tide,  which  v*^as  at  its  lowest  ebb,  was  heav- 
ing on  the  sand  far  out  in  the  bay  with  the  sound  as  of  a 
rookery  awakening.  Philip  remembered  afterwards  that  his 
mother  cried  so  much  that  he  was  afraid,  and  that  when  he 
had  been  dressed  she  took  him  downstairs,  where  they  all  ate 
breakfast  together,  with  the  sun  shining  through  the  blinds. 

The  mother  did  not  live  to  overshadow  her  son's  life. 
Sinking  yet  lower  in  habits  of  intemperance,  she  stayed  in- 
doors from  week-end  to  week-end,  seated  herself  like  a  weep- 
ing willow  by  the  fireside,  and  drank  and  drank.  Her  ex- 
cesses led  to  delusions.  She  saw  ghosts  perpetually.  To 
avoid  such  of  them  as  haunted  the  death-room  of  her  hus- 
band, she  had  a  bed  made  up  on  a  couch  in  the  parlour,  and 
one  morning  she  was  found  face  downwards  stretched  out  be- 
side it  on  the  floor. 

Then  Philip's  father's  cousin,  always  called  his  Aunty 
Nan,  came  to  Ballure  House  to  bring  him  up.  His  father  had 
been  her  favourite  cousin,  and,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, he  had  been  her  lifelong  hero  also.  A  deep  and  secret 
tenderness,  too  timid  to  be  quite  aware  of  itself,  had  been 
lying  in  ambush  in  her  heart  through  all  the  years  of  his 
miserable  life  with  Mona.  At  the  death  of  the  old  Deemster, 
3 


12  THE  MANXMAN. 

her  other  cousin,  Peter,  had  married  and  cast  her  off.  But 
she  was  always  one  of  those  woodland  herbs  which  are  said 
to  give  out  their  sweetest  fragrance  after  they  have  been  trod- 
den on  and  crushed.  Philip's  father  had  been  her  hero,  her 
lost  one  and  her  love,  and  Philip  was  his  father's  son. 


III. 

Little  curly  Pete,  w^ith  the  broad,  bare  feet,  the  tousled 
black  head,  the  jacket  half  way  up  his  back  like  a  waistcoat 
with  sleeves,  and  the  hole  in  his  trousers  where  the  tail  of  his 
shirt  should  have  been,  was  Peter  Quilliani,  and  he  was  the 
natural  son  of  Peter  Christian.  In  the  days  when  that  punc- 
tilious worthy  set  himself  to  observe  the  doings  of  his  elder 
brother  at  Ballure,  he  found  it  convenient  to  make  an  out- 
work of  the  hedge  in  front  of  the  tbatched  house  that  stood 
nearest.  Two  persons  lived  in  the  cottage,  father  and  daugh- 
ter— Tom  Quilliam,  usually  called  Black  Tom,  and  Bridget 
Quilliam,  getting  the  name  of  Bridget  Black  Tom. 

The  man  was  a  short,  gross  creature,  with  an  enormous 
head  and  a  big,  open  mouth,  showing  broken  teeth  that  w^ere 
black  wdth  the  juice  of  tobacco.  The  girl  v/as  by  common 
judgment  and  report  a  gawk — a  great,  slow-eyed,  comely- 
looking,  comfortable,  easy-going  gawk.  Black  Tom  was  a 
thatcher.  and  with  his  hair  poking  its  way  through  the  holes 
in  his  straw  hat,  he  tramped  the  island  in  pursuit  of  his  call- 
ing. This  kept  him  from  home  for  days  together,  and  in  that 
fact  Peter  Christian,  while  shadowing  the  morality  of  his 
brother,  found  his  own  opportunity. 

When  the  child  was  born,  neither  the  thatcher  nor  his 
daughter  attempted  to  father  it.  Peter  Christian  paid  twenty 
pounds  to  the  one  and  eighty  to  the  other  in  Manx  pound- 
notes,  the  boys  daubed  their  door  to  show  that  the  house  was 
dishonoured,  and  that  was  the  end  of  everything. 

The  girl  went  through  her  "censures"  silently,  or  with 
only  one  comment.  She  had  borrowed  the  sheet  in  which 
she  appeared  in  church  from  Miss  Christian  of  Ballawhaine, 
and  when  she  took  it  back,  the  good  soul  of  the  sweet  lady 
thought  to  improve  the  occasion. 

"  I  was  wondering,  Bridget,"  she  said  gi-avelj^  "  what  you 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  13 

were  thinking  of  when  you  stood  witli  Bella  and  Liza  before 
the  cong-reg-ation  last  Sunday  morning" — two  other  Magda- 
len es  had  done  penance  by  Bridget's  side. 

'"Deed,  mistress,"  said  the  girl,  "I  was  thinkin'  there 
wasn't  a  sheet  at  one  of  them  to  match  mine  for  whiteness. 
I'd  a  been  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  the  like  of  theirs." 

Bridget  may  have  been  a  gawk,  but  she  did  two  things 
which  were  not  gawkish.  Putting  the  eighty  greasy  notes 
into  the  foot  of  an  old  stocking,  she  sewed  them  up  in  the 
ticking  of  her  bed,  and  then  christened  her  baby  Peter.  The 
money  was  for  the  child  if  she  should  not  live  to  rear  him,  and 
the  name  was  her  way  of  saying  that  a  man's  son  was  his  son 
in  spite  of  law  or  devil. 

After  that  she  kept  both  herself  and  her  child  by  day 
labour  in  the  fields,  weeding  and  sowing  potatoes,  and  follow- 
ing at  the  tail  of  the  reapers,  for  sixpence  a  day  dry  days,  and 
fourpence  all  weathers.  She  might  have  badgered  the  heir  of 
Ballawhaine,  but  she  never  did  so.  That  person  came  into  his 
inheritance,  got  himself  elected  member  for  Ramsey  in  the 
House  of  Keys,  married  Nessy  Taubman,  daughter  of  the 
rich  brewer,  and  became  the  father  of  another  son.  Such 
were  the  doings  in  the  big  house  down  in  the  valley,  while  up 
in  the  thatched  cottage  behind  the  water-trough,  on  potatoes 
and  herrings  and  barley  bonnag,  lived  Bridget  and  her  little 
Pete. 

Pete's  earliest  recollections  were  of  a  boy  who  lived  at  the 
beautiful  white  house  with  the  big  fuchsia,  by  the  turn  of  the 
road  over  the  bridge  that  crossed  the  glen.  This  was  Philip 
Christian,  half  a  year  older  than  himself,  although  several 
inches  shorter,  with  long  yellow  hair  and  rosy  cheeks,  and 
dressed  in  a  velvet  suit  of  knickerbockers.  Pete  worshipped 
him  in  his  simple  way,  hung  about  him,  fetched  and  carried 
for  him,  and  looked  up  to  him  as  a  marvel  of  wisdom  and 
goodness  and  pluck. 

His  first  memory  of  Philip  was  of  sleeping  with  him, 
snuggled  up  by  his  side  in  the  dark,  hushed  and  still  in  a  nar- 
row bed  with  iron  ends  to  it,  and  of  leaping  up  in  the  morning 
and  laughing.  Philip's  father — a  tall,  white  gentleman,  who 
never  laughed  at  all,  and  only  smiled  sometimes— had  found 
him  in  the  road  in  the  evening  waiting  for  his  mother  to  come 
home  from  the  fields,  that  he  might  light  the  lire  in  the  cot- 


14  THE   MANXMAN. 

tag-e,  and  running  about  in  the  meantime  to  keep  himself 
wai'm,  and  not  too  hungry. 

His  second  memory  was  of  Philip  guiding-  him  round  the 
di'a wing-room  (over  thick  carpets,  on  v.hich  his  bare  feet  made 
no  noise),  and  showing  him  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  and 
telling  him  what  they  meant.  One  (an  engraving  of  St.  John, 
with  a  death's-head  and  a  crucifix)  was,  according  to  this  grim 
and  veracious  guide,  a  ]:>iciure  of  a  brigand  Avho  killed  his 
victims,  and  alwaj's  skinned  their  skulls  with  a  cross-handled 
dagger.  After  that  his  memories  of  Philip  and  himself 
were  as  two  gleams  of  sunshine  which  mingle  and  become 
one. 

Philip  was  a  great  reader  of  noble  histories.  He  found 
them,  frayed  and  tattered,  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk  that  had 
tin  corners  and  two  padlocks,  and  stood  in  the  room  looking 
towards  the  harbour  where  his  mother's  father,  the  old  sailor, 
had  slept.  One  of  them  was  his  special  favourite,  and  he  used 
to  read  it  aloud  to  Pete.  It  told  of  the  doings  of  the  Carras- 
dhoo  men.  They  were  a  bold  band  of  desperadoes,  the  terror 
of  all  the  island.  Sometimes  they  worked  in  the  fields  at 
ploughing,  and  reaping,  and  stacking,  the  same  as  common 
practical  men;  and  sometimes  they  lived  in  houses,  just  like 
the  house  by  the  water-trough.  But  when  the  wind  was  rising 
in  the  nor-nor-west,  and  there  was  a  taste  of  the  brine  on  your 
lips,  they  would  be  up,  and  say,  "The  sea's  calling  us— we 
must  be  going."  Then  they  would  live  in  rocky  caves  of  the 
coast  where  nobody  could  reach  them,  and  there  would  be 
fires  lit  at  night  in  tar-barrels,  and  shouting,  and  singing,  and 
carousing;  and  after  that  there  would  be  ships' ruddei*s,  and 
figure  heads,  and  masts  coming  up  with  the  tide,  and  some- 
times dead  bodies  on  the  beach  of  sailors  they  had  drowned — 
only  foreign  ones  though — hundreds  and  tons  of  them.  But 
that  was  long  ago,  the  Carrasdhoo  men  were  dead,  and  the 
glory  of  their  day  was  departed. 

One  quiet  evening,  after  an  awesome  reading  of  this  brave 
history,  Philip,  sitting  on  his  haunches  at  the  gable,  with  Pete 
like  another  white  frog  beside  him,  said  quite  suddenly, 
"Hush!     What's  that?" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Pete. 

There  was  never  a  sound  in  the  air  above  the  rustle  of  a 
leaf,  and  Pete's  imaa:ination  could  carry  him  no  furtlier. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  I5 

"Pete,"  said  Philip,  with  awful  gravity,  "the  sea's  call- 
ing me." 

"  And  me,"  said  Pete  solemnly. 

Early  that  nigiit  the  two  lads  were  down  at  the  most  deso- 
late part  of  Port  Mooar,  in  a  cavo  under  the  scraggy  black 
rocks  of  Gobuy-Garvain,  kindling  a  fire  of  gorse  and  turf  in- 
side the  remains  of  a  broken  barrel. 

"  See  that  tremendous  shai'p  rock  below  low  water  ? "  said 
Philip. 

"  Don't  I,  though  ? "  said  Pete. 

There  was  never  a  rock  the  size  of  a  currycomb  between 
them  and  the  line  of  the  sky. 

"That's  what  we  call  a  reef,"  said  Philip.  "Wait  a  bit 
and  you'll  see  the  ships  go  splitting  on  top  of  it  like — like " 

"  Like  a  tay-pot,"  said  Pete. 

"  We'll  save  the  women,  though,'"  said  Philip.  "  Shall  w^e 
save  the  women,  Pete  ?    We  always  do." 

"  Aw,  yes,  the  women — and  the  boys,"  said  Pete  thought- 
fully. 

Philip  had  his  doubts  about  the  boys,  but  he  would  not 
quarrel.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  growing  very  cold.  The' 
lads  croodled  down  by  the  crackling  blaze,  and  tried  to  forget 
that  they  had  forgotten  tea-time. 

"We  never  has  to  mind  a  bit  of  hungry,"  said  Philip 
stoutly. 

"  Never  a  ha'p'orth,"  said  Pete. 

"  Only  when  the  job's  done  we  have  hams  and  fiitches  and 
things  for  supper." 

"Aw,  yes,  ateing  and  drinking  to  the  full." 

"Rum,  Pete,  we  always  drinks  rum." 

"  We  has  to,"  said  Pete. 

"None  of  your  tea,"  said  Philip. 

"  Coorse  not,  none  of  your  ould  grannie's  two-penny  tay," 
said  Pete. 

It  w-as  quite  dark  by  this  time,  and  the  tide  was  rising  rap- 
idly. There  was  not  a  star  in  the  sky,  and  not  a  light  on  the 
sea  except  the  revolving  light  of  the  lightship  far  aWay.  The 
boys  crept  closer  together  and  began  to  think  of  home.  Philip 
remembered  Aunty  Nan.  When  he  had  stolen  away  on  hands 
and  knees  under  the  parlour  window  she  had  been  sewing  at 
his  new  check  night-shirt.     A  night-shirt  for  a  Carrasdhoo 


IQ  THE  MANXMAN. 

man  had  seemed  to  be  ridiculous  then  ;  but  where  was  Aunty 
Nannie  now  ?  Pete  remembered  his  mother — she  would  be 
racing  round  the  houses  and  crying  ;  and  he  had  visions  of 
Black  Tom — he  would  be  racing  round  also  and  swearing. 

'•  Shouldn't  we  sing  something,  Phil  '{ ''  said  Pete,  vrith  a 
gurgle  in  his  throat. 

"  Sing  ! "'  said  Philip,  with  as  much  scorn  as  he  could  sum- 
mon, ''  and  give  them  warning  we're  w^atching  for  them  ! 
Well,  you  are  a  pretty,  Mr.  Pete  !  But  just  you  wait  till  the 
ships  goes  wrecking  on  the  rocks — I  mean  the  reefs— and  the 
dead  men's  coming  up  like  corks — hundreds  and  ninety  and 
dozens  of  them  ;  my  jove  I  yes,  then  you'll  hear  me  singing."' 

The  darkness  deepened  and  the  voice  of  the  sea  began  to 
moan  through  the  back  of  the  cave,  the  gorse  crackled  no 
longer,  and  the  turf  burned  in  a  dull  red  glow.  Night  with 
its  avrfuhiess  had  come  down,  and  the  boys  were  cut  off  from 
everything. 

"  They  don't  seem  to  be  comiug — not  yet,"  said  Philip,  in  a 
husky  whisper. 

"Maybe  it's  the  same  as  fishing."  said  Pete;  "sometimes 
you  catch  and  sometimes  you  don't." 

"  That's  it,"  said  Philip  eagerly,  "  genei^lly  you  don't — and 
then  you  both  haves  to  go  home  and  come  again,"  he  added 
nervously. 

But  neither  of  the  boys  stirred.  Outside  the  glow  of  the 
fire  the  blackness  looked  terrible.  Pete  nuzzled  up  to  Philip's 
side,  and,  being  untroubled  by  imaginative  fears,  soon  began 
to  feel  drowsy.  Tiie  sound  of  his  measured  breathing  startled 
Philip  ^vith  the  terror  of  loneliness. 

"  Honour  bright,  Mr.  Pete,"  he  faltered,  nudging  the  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  trying  to  keep  his  voice  from  shaking  ; 
'"you.  call  youi^elf  a  second  mate,  and  leaving  all  the  work  to 
me  ! " 

The  second  mate  was  penitent,  but  in  less  than  half  a  min- 
ute more  he  was  committing  the  same  offence  again.  "  It  isn't 
no  use,"  he  said,  "  I'm  that  sleepy  you  never  seen." 

"Then  let's  both  take  the  watch  below  i'stead,''  said  Philip, 
and  they  proceeded  to  stretch  themselves  out  by  the  fire  to- 
gether. 

"  Just  lave  it  to  me,"  said  Pete  ;  "  I'll  hear  them  if  they 
come  in  the  night.     I'll  always  does.     I'm  sleeping  that  light 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  17 

it's  shockiiif^.  Why,  sometimes  I  hoar  Black  Tom  when  lie 
comes  home  tipsy.     I've  done  it  times." 

"  We'll  have  carpets  to  lie  on  to-morrow,  not  stones,"  said 
Philip,  wriggling  on  a  rough  one;  "  rolls  of  carpets — kidamin- 
strel  ones. " 

They  settled  themselves  side  by  side  as  close  to  each  other 
as  they  could  creep,  and  tried  not  to  hear  the  surging  and 
sighing  of  the  sea.     Then  came  a  tremulous  whimper  : 

"  Pete  ! " 

"What's  that?" 

"Don't  you  never  say  your  prayers  when  you  take  the 
watcli  below  ? " 

"  Sometimes  we  does,  when  mother  isn't  too  tired,  and  the 
ould  man's  middling  drunk  and  quiet." 

"  Then  don't  you  like  to  then  ?  " 

"Aw,  yes,  though,  Pra  liking  it  scandalous." 

The  wreckers  agreed  to  say  their  prayers,  and  got  up  again 
and  said  them,  knee  to  knee,  with  their  two  little  faces  to  the 
fire,  and  then  stretched  themselves  out  afresh. 

"  Pete,  where's  your  hand  ?  " 

"Here  you  are,  Phil." 

In  another  minute,  under  the  solemn  darkness  of  the  night, 
broken  only  by  the  smouldering  fire,  amid  the  thunderous 
quake  of  the  cavern  after  every  beat  of  the  waves  on  the 
beach,  the  Carrasdhoo  men  were  asleep. 

Sometime  in  the  dark  reaches  before  the  dawn  Pete  leapt 
up  with  a  start.     "  What's  that  ?  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  fear. 

But  Philip  was  still  in  the  mists  of  sleep,  and,  feeling  the 
cold,  he  only  whimpered,  "  Cover  me  up,  Pete." 

"  Phil ! "  cried  Pete,  in  an  affrighted  whisper. 

"  Cover  me  up,"  drawled  Philip. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Black  Tom,"  said  Pete. 

There  was  some  confused  bellowing  outside  the  cave. 

"  My  goodness  grayshers  ! "  came  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  it's 
them,  though,  the  pair  of  them  !  Impozzible  !  who  says  it's 
impozzible  ?  It's  themselves  I'm  telling  you,  ma'm.  Guy 
heng  !  The  woman's  mad,  putting  a  scream  out  of  herself  like 
yonder.  Safe  ?  Coorse  they're  safe,  bad  luck  to  the  young 
wastrels  !  You're  for  putting  up  a  prayer  for  your  own  one. 
Eh  ?  Well,  I'm  for  hommering  mine.  The  dirts  ?  Weaned 
only  yesterday,  and  fetching  a  dacent  man  out  of  his  bed  to 


18  THE   MANXMAN. 

find  them.  A  fire  at  them,  too  !  Well,  it  was  the  fire  that 
found  them.     Pull  the  boat  up,  boys." 

Philip  was  half  awake  by  this  time.  '*  They've  come,"  he 
whispered.  "  The  ships  is  come,  they're  on  the  reef.  Oh,  dear 
me  !  Best  go  and  meet  them.  P'raps  they  won't  kill  us  if — 
if  we— Oh,  dear  me  !  " 

Then  the  wreckers,  hand  in  hand,  quaking-  and  whimper- 
ing, stepped  out  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  At  the  next  mo- 
ment Philip  found  himself  snatched  up  into  the  arms  of  Aunty 
Nan,  who  kissed  him  and  cried  over  him,  and  rammed  a  great 
chunk  of  sweet  cake  into  his  cheek.  Pete  was  faring  differ- 
ently. Under  the  leathern  belt  of  Black  Tom,  who  was  thrash- 
ing him  for  both  of  them,  he  was  howling  like  the  sea  in  a 
storm. 

Thus  the  Carrasdhoo  men  came  home  by  the  light  of  early 
morning — Pete  skipping  before  the  belt  and  bellowing  ;  and 
Philip  holding  a  i)iece  of  the  cake  at  his  teeth  to  comfort  him. 


IV. 

Philip  left  home  for  school  at  King  William's  by  Castle- 
town, and  then  Pete  had  a  hard  upbringing.  His  niother  was 
tender  enough,  and  there  were  good  souls  like  Aunty  Nan  to 
show  pity  to  both  of  them.  But  life  went  like  a  springless 
bogey,  nevertheless.  Sin  itself  is  often  easier  than  simpleness 
to  pardon  and  condone.  It  takes  a  soft  heart  to  feel  tenderly 
towards  a  soft  head. 

Poor  Pete's  head  seemed  soft  enough  and  to  spare.  No 
power  and  no  persuasion  could  teach  him  to  read  and  write. 
He  went  to  school  at  the  old  schoolhouse  by  the  church  in 
Maughold  village.  The  schoolmaster  was  a  little  man  called 
John  Thomas  Corlett,  pert  and  proud,  with  the  sharp  nose  of 
a  pike  and  the  gait  of  a  bantam.  John  Thomas  was  also  a 
tailor.  On  a  cowhouse  door  laid  across  two  school  forms  he 
sat  cross-legged  among  his  cloth,  his  "maidens,"  and  his 
smoothing  irons,  with  his  boys  and  girls,  class  by  class,  in  a 
big  half  circle  round  about  him. 

The  great  Jittle  man  had  one  standing  ground  of  daily  as- 
sault on  the  dusty  jacket  of  poor  Pete,  and  that  was  that  the 
lad  came  late  to  school.     Every  morning  Pete's  welcome  from 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  I9 

the  tailor-schoolmaster  was  a  volley  of  expletives,  and  a  swipe 
of  the  cane  across  his  shoulders.  "The  craythur  !  The 
dunce  !  The  diirt !  I'm  taiching  him,  and  taiching  him,  and 
he  won't  be  taicht." 

The  soul  of  the  schoolmaster  had  jnst  two  human  weak- 
nesses. One  of  these  was  a  weakness  for  drink,  and  as  a  little 
vessel  he  could  not  take  much  without  being  full.  Then  he 
always  taught  the  Church  catechism  and  swore  at  his  boys  in 
Manx. 

"  Peter  Quilliam,"  he  cried  one  day,  "  who  brought  you  out 
of  the  land  of  Egypt  and  the  house  of  bondage  ? " 

."  'Deed,  master,"  said  Pete,  "  I  never  was  in  no  such  places, 
for  I  never  had  the  money  nor  the  clothes  for  it,  and  that's 
how  stories  are  getting  about." 

The  second  of  the  schoolmaster's  frailties  was  love  of  his 
daughter,  a  child  of  four,  a  cripple,  whom  he  had  lamed  in  her 
infancy,  by  letting  her  fall  as  he  tossed  her  in  his  arms  while 
in  drink.  The  constant  terror  of  his  mind  was  lest  some  fur- 
ther accident  should  befall  her.  Between  class  and  class  he 
would  go  to  a  window,  from  which,  when  he  had  thrown  up 
its  lower  sash,  dim  with  the  scratches  of  names,  he  could  see 
one  end  of  his  own  white  cottage,  and  the  little  pathway,  be- 
tween lines  of  gilvers,  coming  down  from  the  porch. 

Pete  had  seen  the  little  one  hobbling  along  this  path  on 
her  lame  leg,  and  giggling  with  a  heart  of  glee  w^hen  she  had 
eluded  the  eyes  of  her  mother  and  escaped  into  the  road.  One 
day  it  chanced,  after  the  heavy  spring  rains  had  swollen  every 
watercourse,  that  he  came  upon  the  little  curly  poll,  tumbling 
and  tossing  like  a  bell-buoy  in  a  gale,  down  the  flood  of  the 
river  that  runs  to  the  sea  at  Port  Mooar.  Pete  rescued  the 
child  and  took  her  home,  and  then,  as  if  he  had  done  nothing 
unusual,  he  went  on  to  school,  dripping  water  from  his  legs 
at  every  step. 

When  John  Thomas  saw  him  coming,  in  bare  feet,  triddle- 
traddle,  triddle-traddle,  up  the  school-house  floor,  his  indigna- 
tion at  the  boy  for  being  later  than  usual  rose  to  fiery  wrath 
for  being  drenched  as  well.  Waiting  for  no  e:5;planation,  con- 
cluding that  Pete  had  been  fishing  for  crabs  among  the  stones 
of  Port  Lewaigue,  he  burst  into  a  loud  volley  of  his  accus- 
tomed expletives,  and  timed  and  punctuated  them  by  a  thwack 
of  the  cane  between  every  word. 


20  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  The  waistrel  !  (thwack).  The  dirt !  (thwack).  I'm  taich- 
ing  him  (thwack),  and  taiching  him  (thwack),  and  he  won't  be 
taicht  !"     (Thwack,  thwack,  thwack.) 

Pete  said  never  a  word.  Eolling  his  stinging  shoulders 
under  liis  jacket,  and  ramming  his  smarting  hands,  Uke  wet 
eels,  into  his  breeches'  pockets,  he  took  his  place  in  silence  at 
the  bottom  of  the  class. 

But  a  girl,  a  little  dark  thing  in  a  red  frock,  stepped  out 
from  her  place  beside  the  bov,  shot  up  like  a  gleam  to  the 
schoolmaster  as  he  returned  to  his  seat  among  the  cloth  and 
needles,  dealt  him  a  smart  slap  across  the  face,  and  tlien  burst 
into  a  fit  of  hysterical  crying.  Her  name  was  Katherine 
Cregeen.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Caesar  the  Cornaa  miller, 
the  founder  of  Ballajora  Chapel,  and  a  mighty  man  among 
the  Methodists. 

Katherine  went  unpunished,  but  that  was  the  end  of  Pete's 
schooling.  His  learning  was  not  too  heavy  for  a  big  lad's 
head  to  carry — a  bit  of  reading  if  it  was  all  in  print,  and  no 
writing  at  all  except  half  a-dozen  capital  letters.  It  was  not  a 
formidable  equipment  for  the  battle  of  life,  but  Bridget  would 
not  hear  of  more. 

She  herself,  meanwhile,  had  annexed  that  character  which 
was  always  the  first  and  easiest  to  attach  itself  to  a  woman 
with  a  child  but  no  visible  father  for  it — the  character  of  a 
witch.  That  name  for  his  mother  was  Pete's  earliest  recollec- 
tion of  the  high-road,  and  when  the  consciousness  of  its  mean- 
ing came  to  him,  he  did  not  rebel,  but  sullenly  acquiesced,  for 
he  had  been  born  to  it  and  knew  nothing  to  the  contrary.  If 
the  boys  quarrelled  with  him  at  play,  the  fii'st  word  was 
"your  mother's  a  butch."  Then  he  cried  at  the  reproach,  or 
perhaps  fought  like  a  vengeance  at  the  insult,  but  he  never 
dreamt  of  disbelieving  the  fact  or  of  loving  his  mother  any 
the  less. 

Bridget  was  accused  of  the  evil  eye.  Cattle  sickened  in 
the  fields,  and  when  there  was  no  proof  that  she  had  looked 
over  the  gate,  the  idea  was  suggested  that  she  crossed  them  as 
a  hare.  One  day  a  neighbour's  dog  started  a  hare  in  a  mead- 
ow where  some  cows  were  grazing.  This  was  observed  by  a 
gang  of  boys  playing  at  hockey  in  the  road.  Instantly  there 
was  a  shout  and  a  whoop,  and  the  boys  with  their  sticks  were 
in  full  chase  after  the  yelping  dog,  crying,  "The  butch  I     The 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  21 

butch !  It's  Bridget  Tom !  Corlctt's  dogs  arc  hunting  Bridget 
Black  Tom!  Kill  her,  Laddie!  Kill  her,  Sailor !  Jump,  dog, 
jump ! " 

One  of  the  boys  playing  at  hockey  was  Pete.  When  his 
play-fellows  ran  after  the  dogs  in  their  fanatic  thirst,  he  ran 
too,  but  with  a  storm  of  other  feelings.  Outstripping  all  of 
them,  very  close  at  the  heels  of  the  dogs,  kicking  some,  strik- 
ing others  with  the  hockej^-stick,  while  the  tears  poured  down 
his  cheeks,  he  cried  at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  the  hare  leaping 
in  front,  "Run,  mammy,  run!  clink  (dodge),  mammy,  clink! 
Aw,  mammy,  mammy,  run  faster,  run  for  your  life,  run ! " 

The  hare  dodged  aside,  shot  into  a  thicket,  and  escaped  its 
pursiiers  just  as  Corlett,  the  farmer,  who  had  heard  the  outcry, 
came  racing  up  with  a  gun.  Then  Pete  swept  his  coat-sleeve 
across  his  gleaming  eyes  and  leapt  off  home.  When  he  got 
there,  he  found  his  mother  sitting  on  the  bink  by  the  door 
knitting  quietly.  He  threw  himself  into  her  arms  and  stroked 
her  cheek  with  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  mammy,  bogh,"  he  cried,  "  how  well  you  run  !  If 
you  never  run  in  your  life  you  run  then." 

"  Is  the  boy  mad  ? "  said  Bridget. 

But  Pete  w^ent  on  stroking  her  cheek  and  crying  between 
sobs  of  joy,  "  I  heard  Corlett  shouting  to  the  house  for  a  gun 
and  a  fourpenny  bit,  and  I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  see 
mammy  no  more.  But  you  did  clink,  mammy  !  You  did, 
though  ! " 

The  next  time  Katherine  Cregeen  saw  Peter  Quilliam,  he 
was  sitting  on  the  ridge  of  rock  at  the  mouth  of  Ballure 
Glen,  playing  doleful  strains  on  a  home-made  whistle,  and 
looking  the  picture  of  desolation  and  despair.  His  mother 
was  lying  near  to  death.  He  had  left  Mrs.  Cregeen,  Kath- 
arine's mother,  a  good  soul  getting  the  name  of  Grannie,  to 
watch  and  tend  her  while  he  came  out  to  comfort  his  simple 
heart  in  this  lone  spot  between  the  land  and  the  sea. 

Katherine's  eyes  filled  at  sight  of  him,  and  when,  without 
looking  up  or  speaking,  he  went  on  to  play  his  crazy  tunes^ 
something  took  the  girl  by  the  throat  and  she  broke  down 
utterly. 

'^  Never  mind,  Pete.  No— I  don't  mean  that— but  don't 
cry,  Pete." 

Pete  was  not  crying  at  all,  but  only  playing  away  on  his 


22  THE  MANXMAN. 

whistle  and  gaziug  out  to  sea  with  a  look  of  dumb  vacancy. 
Katherine  knelt  beside  him,  put  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  cried  for  both  of  tbem. 

Somebody  hailed  him  from  the  hedge  by  the  water-trough, 
and  he  rose,  took  otf  his  cap,  smoothed  his  hair  with  his  hand, 
and  walked  towards  tlie  house  without  a  word. 

Bridget  was  dying  of  pleurisy,  brought  on  by  a  long  daj^'s 
work  at  hoeing  turnips  in  a  soaking  rain.  Dr.  Mylechreest 
had  poulticed  her  lungs  with  mustard  and  linseed,  but  all  to 
no  purpose.  "It's  feeling  the  same  as  the  sun  on  your  back 
at  harvest,''  she  murmured,  yet  the  poultices  brought  no  heat 
to  her  frozen  chest. 

Caesar  Cregeen  was  at  her  side  ;  John  the  Clerk,  too,  called 
John  the  Widow  ;  Kelly,  the  rural  postman,  who  went  by  the 
name  of  Kelly  the  Thief ;  as  well  as  Black  Tom,  her  father.  Cae- 
sar was  discoursing  of  sinners  and  their  latter  end.  John  was 
remembering  how  at  his  election  to  the  clerkship  he  had  rash- 
ly promised  to  bury  the  poor  for  nothing  ;  Kelly  was  think- 
ing he  would  be  the  first  to  carry  the  news  to  Christian  Balla- 
whaine  ;  and  Black  Tom  was  varying  the  exercise  of  pounding 
rock-sugar  for  his  bees  with  that  of  breaking  his  playful  wit 
on  the  dying  woman. 

"  No  use  ;  I'm  laving  you  ;  I'm  going  on  my  long  jour- 
ney," said  Bridget,  while  Granny  used  a  shovel  as  a  fan  to 
relieve  her  gusty  breathing. 

"  Got  anything  in  your  pocket  for  the  road,  woman  ? "  said 
the  thatcher. 

''It's  not  houses  of  bricks  and  mortal  I'm  for  calling  at 
now,"  she  answered. 

"  Dear  heart  !  Put  up  a  bit  of  a  prayer,"  whispered  Gran- 
nie to  her  husband  ;  and  Cansar  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  fell  to  ''  wrastling  with  the  Lord." 

Bridget  seemed  to  be  comforted.  "  I  see  the  jasper  gates," 
she  panted,  fixing  her  hazy  eyes  on  the  scraas  under  the 
thatch,  from  which  broken  spiders'  webs  hung  down  like  rats' 
tails. 

Then  she  called  for  Pete.  She  had  something  to  give  him. 
It  was  the  stocking  fov'>t  with  the  eighty  greasy  Manx  bank- 
notes which  his  father,  Peter  Christian,  had  paid  her  fifteen 
years  before.  Pete  lit  the  candle  and  steadied  it  while  Grau- 
nio  cut  the  stocking  from  the  wall  side  of  the  bed-ticking. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  23 

Black  Tom  dropped  the  sugar-pounder  and  exposed  his  broken 
teeth  in  his  surprise  at  so  much  weahh  ;  John  the  Widow 
blinked  ;  and  Kelly  the  Thief  poked  his  head  forward  until 
the  peak  of  his  postman's  cap  fell  on  to  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 

A  sea-fog"  lay  over  the  land  that  morning,  and  when  it 
lifted  Bridget's  soul  went  up  as  well. 

"  Poor  thing  !  Poor  thing  ! "  said  Grannie.  "  The  ways 
were  cold  for  her — cold,  cold  !  " 

"  A  dacent  lass,"  said  John  the  Clerk  ;  "  and  oughtn't  to  be 
buried  with  the  common  trash,  seeing  she's  left  money." 

"  A  hard-working  woman,  too,  and  on  her  feet  for  ever  ; 
but  'lowanced  in  her  intellecks,  for  all,"  said  Kelly. 

And  C^sar  cried,  "  A  brand  plucked  from  the  burning  ! 
Lord,  give  me  more  of  the  like  at  the  judgment." 

When  all  was  over,  and  tears  both  hot  and  cold  were 
wiped  away — Pete  shed  none  of  them — the  neighbours  who 
had  stood  with  the  lad  in  the  churchyard  on  Maughold  Head 
returned  to  the  cottage  by  the  water-trough  to  decide  w^hat 
was  to  be  done  with  his  eighty  good  bank-notes.  "  It's  a  for- 
tune," said  one.  "  Let  him  put  it  with  Mr.  Dumbell,"  said  an- 
other. "  Get  the  boy  a  trade  first — he's  a  big  lump  now,  six- 
teen for  spring,"  said  a  third.  *'  A  draper,  eh  ? "  said  a  fourth. 
"May  I  presume?  My  nephew,  Eobbie  Clucas,  of  Ramsey, 
now  ? "  ''  A  dacent  man,  very,"  said  John  the  Widow  ;  "  but  if 
I'm  not  ambitious,  there's  my  son-in-law,  John  Cowley.  The 
lad's  cut  to  a  dot  for  a  grocer,  and  wiiat  more  nicer  than  hav- 
ing your  own  shop  and  your  own  name  over  the  door,  if  you 
plaze — '  Peter  Quilliam,  tay  and  sugar  merchant  ! ' — they're 
telling  me  John  will  be  riding  in  his  carriage  and  pair  soon." 

"  Chut !  your  grannie  and  your  carriage  and  pairs,"  shouted 
a  rasping  voice  at  last.  It  was  Black  Tom.  "Who  says  the 
fortune  is  belonging  to  the  lad  at  all  ?'  It's  mine,  and  if  there's 
law  in  the  land  I'll  have  it." 

Meanwhile,  Pete,  v/ith  the  dull  thud  in  his  ears  of  earth 
falling  on  a  coffin,  had  made  his  way  down  to  Ballawhaipe. 
He  had  never  been  there  before,  and  he  felt  confused,  but  he 
did  not  tremble.  Half-way  up  the  carriage-drive  he  passed  a 
sandy-haired  youth  of  his  own  age,  a  slim  dandy  who  hummed 
a  tune  and  looked  at  him  carelessly  over  his  shoulder.  Pete 
knew  hira — he  was  Ross,  the  boys  called  him  Dross,  son  and 
heir  of  Christian  Ballawhaine. 


24:  THE   MANXMAN. 

At  the  big  house  Pete  asked  for  the  master.  The  English 
footman,  in  scarlet  knee-breeches,  left  him  to  wait  in  the  stone 
hall.  The  place  was  very  quiet  and  rather  cold,  but  all  as 
clean  as  a  gull's  wing.  There  was  a  dark  table  in  the  mid- 
dle and  a  high-backed  chair  against  the  wall.  Two  oil  pic- 
tures faced  caeli  other  from  opposite  sides.  One  was  of  an 
old  man  without  a  beard,  but  with  a  high  forehead,  framed 
around  with  short  grey  hair.  The  other  was  of  a  woman  with 
a  tired  look  and  a  baby  on  her  lap.  Under  this  there  was  a 
little  black  picture  that  seemed  to  Pete  to  be  the  likeness  of  a 
fancy  tombstone.  And  the  print  on  it,  so  far  as  Pete  could 
spell  it  out,  was  that  of  a  tombstone  too,  "  In  loving  memory  of 
Verbena,  beloved  wife  of  Peter  Chr " 

The  Ballawhaine  came  crunching  the  sand  on  the  hall- 
floor.  He  looked  old.  and  had  now  a  pent-house  of  bristly 
eyebrows  of  a  different  colour  from  his  hair.  Pete  had  often 
seen  him  on  the  road  riding  by. 

''Well,  my  lad,  what  can  I  do  for  youV  he  said.  He 
spoke  in  a  jerk}-  voice,  as  if  lie  thought  to  overawe  the  boy. 

Pete  fumbled  his  stocking  cap.  "  Mother's  dead,"  he  an- 
swered vacantly. 

The  Ballawhaine  knew  that  already.  Kelly  the  Thief  had 
run  hot -foot  to  inform  him.  He  thought  Pete  had  com^e  to 
claim  maintenance  now  that  his  mother  was  gone. 

"  So  she's  been  telling  you  the  same  old  story  ? "  he  said 
briskly.  * 

At  that  Pete's  face  stiffened  all  at  once.  "She's  been  tell- 
ing me  that  youVe  my  father,  sir."' 

The  Ballawhaine  tried  to  laugh.  "  Indeed  !  "  he  replied  ; 
"it\s  a  wise  child,  now,  that  knows  its  own  father." 

"I'm  not  rightly  knowing  what  you  mane,  sir,"  said  Pete. 

Then  the  Ballawhaine  fell  to  slandering  the  poor  woman 
in  her  grave,  declaring  that  she  could  not  know  who  was  the 
father  of  her  child,  and  protesting  that  no  son  of  hei-s  should 
ever  see  the  colour  of  money  of  his.  Saying  this  with  a  snarl, 
lie  brought  down  his  right  hand  with  a  thump  on  to  the  table. 
There  was  a  big  hairy  mole  near  the  joint  of  the  first  finger. 

"Aisy,  sir,  if  you  plaze,"  said  Pete  ;  "she  was  telling  me 
you  gave  her  this.'' 

He  turned  up  the  corner  of  his  jersey,  tugged  out  of  his 
pocket,  from  behind  liis  Haps,  the  eighty  Manx  bank-notes, 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  25 

and  held  them  in  his  right  hand  on  the  table.  There  was  a 
mole  at  the  joint  of  Pete's  first  finger  also. 

The  Ballawhaine  saw  it.  He  drew  back  his  hand  and  slid 
it  behind  him.  Then  in  another  voice  he  said,  "  Well,  niy 
lad,  isn't  it  enough  ?    What  are  you  wanting  with  more  ? " 

"I'm  not  wanting  more,"  said  Pete;  "I'm  not  wanting 
this.  Take  it  back,"  and  he  put  down  the  roll  of  notes  be- 
tween them. 

The  Ballawhaine  sank  into  the  chair,  took  a  handkerchief 
out  of  his  tails  with  the  hand  that  had  been  lurking  there,  and 
began  to  mop  his  forehead.  "  Eh  ?  How  ?  What  d'ye  mean, 
boy  ?"  he  stammered. 

"  I  mane,"  said  Pete,  "  that  if  I  kept  that  money  there  is 
people  would  say  my  mother  was  a  bad  woman,  and  you 
bought  her  and  paid  her — I'm  hearing  the  like  at  some  of 
them." 

He  took  a  step  nearer.  "  And  I  mane,  too,  that»you  did 
wrong  by  my  mother  long  ago,  and  now  that  she's  dead  you're 
blackening  her  ;  and  you're  a  bad  heart,  and  a  low  tongue, 
and  if  I  was  only  a  man,  and  didn't  know  you  were  my  father, 
I'd  break  every  bone  in  your  skin." 

Then  Pete  twisted  about  and  shouted  into  the  dark  part  of 
the  hall,  "  Come  along,  there,  my  ould  cockatoo  !  It's  time  to 
be  putting  me  to  the  door. " 

The  English  footman  in  the  scarlet  breeches  had  been 
peeping  from  under  the  stairs. 

That  was  Pete's  first  and  last  interview  with  his  father. 
Peter  Christian  Ballawhaine  was  a  terror  in  the  Keys  by  this 
time,  but  he  had  trembled  before  his  son  like  a  whipped  cur. 


V. 

Katherine  Cregeen,  Pete's  champion  at  school,  had  been 
his  companion  at  home  as  well.  She  was  two  years  younger 
than  Pete.  Her  hair  was  a  black  as  a  gipsy's,  and  her  face  as 
brown  as  a  berry.  In  summer  she  liked  best  to  wear  a  red 
frock  without  sleeves,  no  boots  and  no  stockings,  no  collar  and 
no  bonnet,  not  even  a  sun-bonnet.  From  constant  exposure 
to  the  sun  and  rain  her  arms  and  legs  were  as  ruddy  as  her 
cheeks,  and  covered  with  a  soft  silken  down.    So  often  did  you 


26  THE  MAXXMAN. 

see  her  teeth  that  you  would  liave  said  she  was  always  lauf^rh- 
ing-.  Her  laugh  was  a  little  saucy  trill  given  out  with  head 
aside  and  eyes  aslant,  like  that  of  a  sqiiiirrel  when  he  is  at  a 
safe  height  above  your  head,  and  has  a  nut  in  his  open  jaws. 

Pete  had  seen  her  first  at  school,  and  there  he  had  tried  to 
draw  the  e^'es  of  the  maiden  upon  himself  by  methods  known 
only  to  heroes,  to  savages,  and  to  boys.  He  had  prowled 
around  her  in  the  playground  with  the  wild  vigour  of  a  young 
colt,  tossing  his  head,  swinging  his  arms,  screwing  his  body, 
kicking  up  his  legs,  walking  on  his  hands,  lunging  out  at 
every  lad  that  was  twice  as  big  as  himself,  and  then  bringing 
himself  down  at  length  with  a  whoop  and  a  crash  on  his  hind- 
most parts  just  in  front  of  where  she  stood.  For  these  tre- 
mendous efforts  to  show  what  a  fellow  he  could  be  if  he  tried, 
he  had  won  no  applause  from  the  boys,  and  Katherine  herself 
had  given  no  sign,  though  Pete  had  watched  her  out  of  the 
corners  ^f  his  eyes.  But  in  other  scenes  the  children  came 
together. 

After  Philip  had  gone  to  King  William's,  Pete  and  Kath- 
erine had  become  bosom  friends.  Instead  of  going  home  after 
school  to  cool  his  heels  in  the  road  until  his  mother  came  from 
the  fields,  he  found  it  neighbourly  to  go  up  to  Ballajora  and 
round  by  the  network  of  paths  to  Cornaa.  That  was  a  long 
detour,  but  Caesar's  mill  stood  tliere.  It  nestled  down  in  the 
low  bed  of  the  river  that  runs  through  the  glen  called  Balla- 
glass.  Song-birds  built  about  it  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  and 
Caesai-'s  little  human  songster  sang  there  always. 

When  Pete  went  that  way  home,  what  times  the  girl  had 
of  it  !  Wading  up  the  river,  clambering  over  the  stones,  play- 
ing female  Blondin  on  the  fallen  tree-trunks  that  spanned  the 
cliasm,  slipping,  falling,  holding  on  any  way  up  (legs  or  arms) 
by  the  rotten  branches  below,  then  calling  for  Pete's  help  in  a 
voice  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry,  Hinging  chips  into  the  foam- 
ing back-wash  of  the  mill-wheel,  and  chasing  them  down 
stream,  racing  among  the  gorse,  and  then  lying  full  length 
like  a  lamb,  without  a  tliought  of  shame,  while  Pete  took  the 
thorns  out  of  her  bleeding  feet.  She  was  a  wild  duck  in  the 
glen  where  she  lived,  and  Pete  was  a  great  lumbering  tame 
duck  waddling  behind  licr. 

But  the  glorious,  happy,  make-believe  days  too  soon  came 
to  an  end.     The  swinging  cane  of  the  great  John  Thomas 


BOYS   TOGETHER.  27 

Corlett,  and  the  rod  of  a  yet  more  relentless  tyrant,  darkened 
the  sunshine  of  both  the  children.  Pete  v/as  banished  from 
school,  and  Katheriue's  father  removed  from  Cornaa. 

When  Caesar  had  taken  a  wife,  he  had  married  Betsy,  the 
daughter  of  the  owner  of  the  inn  at  Sulby.  After  that  he  had 
"got  religion,"  and  he  held  that  persons  in  the  household  of 
faith  Avere  not  to  drink,  or  to  buy  or  to  sell  drink.  But  Gran- 
nie's father  died  and  left  his  house,  "  The  Manx  Fairy,"  and 
his  farm,  Glenmooar,  to  her  and  her  husband.  About  the 
same  time  the  miller  at  Sulby  also  died,  and  the  best  mill  in 
the  island  cried  out  for  a  tenant.  Caesar  took  the  mill  and 
the  farm,  and  Grannie  took  the  inn,  being  brought  up  to  such 
profanities  and  no  way  bound  by  principle.  From  that  time 
forward,  Ceesar  pinned  all  envious  cavillers  with  the  text 
which  says,  "  Not  that  which  goeth  into  the  mouth  of  a  man 
defileth  him,  but  that  which  cometh  out." 

Nevertheless,  Caesar's  principles  grew  more  and  more  puri- 
tanical year  by  year.  There  were  no  half  measures  with 
Caesar.  Either  a  man  was  a  saved  soul,  or  he  was  in  the  very 
belly  of  hell,  though  the  pit  might  not  have  shut  its  mouth  on 
him.  If  a  man  was  saved  he  knew  it,  and  if  he  felt  the  mani- 
festations of  the  Spirit  he  could  live  without  sin.  His  cardi- 
nal principles  were  three— instantaneous  regeneration,  assur- 
ance, and  sinless  perfection.  He  always  said — he  had  said  it 
a  thousand  times — that  he  was  converted  in  Douglas  market- 
place, a  piece  off  the  west  door  of  ould  St.  Matthew's,  at  five- 
and-twenty  minutes  past  six  on  a  Sabbath  evening  in  July, 
when  he  was  two-and-twenty  for  harvest. 

While  at  Cornaa,  Caesar  had  been  a  "  local "  on  the  preach- 
ers' plan,  a  class  leader,  and  a  chapel  steward;  but  at  Sulby  he 
outgrew  the  Union  and  set  up  a  "  body "  of  his  own.  He 
called  them  "  The  Christians."  a  title  that  was  at  once  a  name, 
a  challenge,  and  a  protest.  They  worshipped  in  the  long  barn 
over  Caesar's  mill,  and  held  strong  views  on  conduct.  A  saved 
soul  must  not  wear  gold  or  costly  apparel,  or  give  way  to  soft- 
ness or  bodily  indulgence,  or  go  to  fairs  for  sake  of  sport,  or 
appear  in  the  show-tents  of  play-actors,  or  sing  songs,  or  read 
books,  or  take  any  diversion  that  did  not  tend  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  God.  As  for  carnal  transgression,  if  any  were  guilty 
of  it,  they  were  to  be  cut  off  from  the  body  of  believers,  for 
the  souls  of  the  righteous  must  be  delivered. 
3 


2S  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  The  religion  that's  going"  among  the  Primitives  these 
days  is  just  Popery,"  said  Caesar.  "  Let's  go  back  to  the  warm 
ould  Methodism  and  put  out  the  Romans." 

When  Pete  turned  his  face  from  Ballawhaine,  he  thought 
first  of  Ca?sar  and  his  mill.  It  would  be  more  exact  to  say  he 
thought  of  Katherine  and  Grannie.  He  was  homeless  as  well 
as  penniless.  The  cottage  by  the  water-trough  was  no  longer 
possible  to  him,  now  that  the  mother  was  gone  who  had  stood 
between  his  threatened  shoulders  and  Black  Tom.  Philip 
was  at  home  for  a  few  weeks  only  in  the  year,  and  Ballure 
had  lost  its  attraction.  So  Pete  made  his  way  to  Sulby,  offered 
liimself  to  Caesar  for  service  at  the  mill,  and  was  taken  on 
straightway  at  eighteenpence  a  week  and  his  board. 

It  was  a  curious  household  he  entered  into.  First  there 
was  Caesar  himself,  in  a  moleskin  waistcoat  with  sleeves  open 
three  buttons  up,  knee-breeches  usually  unlaced,  stockings  of 
undyed  wool,  and  slippers  with  the  tongues  hanging  out — a 
grim  soul,  with  whiskers  like  a  hoop  about  his  face,  and  a 
shaven  upper  lip  as  heavy  as  a  moustache,  for,  when  religion 
like  Caesar's  lays  hold  of  a  man,  it  takes  him  first  by  the  mouth. 
Then  Grannie,  a  comfortable  body  in  a  cap,  with  an  outlook 
on  life  that  was  all  motherhood,  a  simple,  tender,  peaceable 
soul,  agreeing  wdth  everybody  and  everything,  and  seeming 
to  say  nothing  but  "  Poor  thing  !  Poor  thing  !  "  and  "  Dear 
heart  !  Dear  heart  ! "  Then  there  was  Nancy  Cain,  getting 
the  name  of  Nancy  Joe,  the  servant  in  name  but  the  mistress 
in  fact,  a  niece  of  Grannie's,  a  bit  of  a  Pagan,  an  early  riser,  a 
tireless  worker,  with  a  plain  face,  a  rooted  disbelief  in  all  men, 
a  good  heart,  an  ugly  tongue,  and  a  vixenish  temper.  Last  of 
all,  there  was  Katherine,  now  grown  to  be  a  great  girl,  with 
her  gipsy  hair  done  up  in  a  red  ribbon  and  wearing  a  black 
pinafore  bordered  with  white  braid. 

Pete  got  on  steadily  at  the  mill.  He  began  by  lighting  the 
kiln  fire  and  cleaning  out  the  pit-wheel,  and  then  on  to  the 
opening  the  flood  gates  in  the  morning  and  regulating  the 
action  of  the  water-wheel  according  to  the  work  of  the  day. 
In  two  years'  time  he  was  a  sound  miller,  safe  to  trust  with 
rough  stuff  for  cattle  or  fine  flour  for  white  loaf-bread.  Caesar 
trusted  him.  He  would  take  evangelising  journeys  to  Peel  or 
Douglas  and  leave  Pete  in  charge. 

That  led  to  the  end  of  the  beginning.     Pete  could  grind 


BOYS  ^TOGETHER. 


29 


tlie  farmers'  corn,  but  he  could  not  make  their  reckonin^^s. 
He  kept  his  counts  in  chalk  on  the  back  of  the  mill-house 
door,  a  down  line  for  every  stone  weight  up  to  eight  stones, 
and  a  line  across  for  every  hundredweight.  Then,  once  a  day, 
while  the  father  was  abroad,  Katherine  came  over  from  the 
inn  to  the  desk  at  the  little  window  of  the  mill,  and  turned 
Pete's  lines  into  ledger  accounts.  These  financial  councils 
were  full  of  delicious  discomfiture.  Pete  always  enjoyed 
them — after  they  were  over. 

''John  Robert — Molleycarane— did  you  say  Moll eycarane, 
Pete  ?  Oh,  Mylecharane — Myle-c-h-a-r-a-i-n-e,  Molleycarane  ; 
ten  stones — did  you  say  ten  ?  Oh,  eight — e-i-g-h-t — no,  eight; 
oatmeal,  Pete  ?    Oh,  barley-male — meal,  I  mean — ra-e-a-l." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Pete  remembered  all  these 
entries.  They  were  very  precious  to  his  memory  after  Kather- 
ine had  spoken  them.  They  sang  in  his  heart  the  same  as 
song-birds  then.  They  were  like  hymns  and  tunes  and  pieces 
of  poetry. 

Caesar  returned  home  from  a  preaching  tour  with  a  great 
and  sudden  thought.  He  had  been  calling  on  strangers  to  flee 
from  the  wrath  to  come,  and  yet  there  were  those  of  his  own 
house  whose  faces  were  not  turned  Zion wards.  That  evening 
he  held  an  all-night  prayer-meeting  for  the  conversion  of 
Katherine  and  Pete.  Through  six  long  hours  he  called  on 
God  in  lusty  tones,  until  his  throat  cracked  and  his  forehead 
streamed.  The  young  were  thoughtless,  they  had  the  root  of 
evil  in  them,  they  flew  into  frivolity  from  contrariness.  Draw 
the  harrow  over  their  souls,  plough  the  fallows  of  their  hearts, 
grind  the  chaff  out  of  their  household,  let  not  the  sweet  apple 
and  the  crabs  grow  on  the  same  bough  together,  give  them  a 
Melliah,  let  not  a  sheaf  be  forgotten,  grant  them  the  soul  of 
this  girl  for  a  harvest-home,  and  of  this  boy  for  a  last  stook. 

Caesar  was  dissatisfied  with  the  results.  He  was  used  to 
groaning  and  trembling  and  fainting  fits. 

"  Don't  you  feel  the  love  ?"  he  cried.  "  I  do — here,  under 
the  watch-pocket  of  my  waistcoat." 

Towards  midnight  Katherine  began  to  fail.  "  Chain  the 
devil,"  cried  Caesar.  "Once  I  was  down  in  the  pit  with  tlie 
devil  myself,  but  now  I'm  up  in  the  loft,  seeing  angels  through 
the  thatch.     Can't  you  feel  the  workings  of  the  S]3irit  ? " 

As  the  clock  was  warning  to  strike  two  Katherine  thought 


30  THE  MANXMAN. 

slie  could,  and  from  that  day  forward  she  led  the  singing  of 
the  women  in  the  choir  a::iODg  "The  Christians." 

Pete  remained  among  the  unregenerate  ;  but  nevertheless 
"  The  Christians "  saw  him  constantly.  He  sat  on  the  back 
form  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  "singing  seat."  Observ- 
ing his  regularity,  Cassar  laid  a  hand  on  his  head  and  told 
him  the  Spirit  was  working  in  his  soul  at  last.  Sometimes 
Pete  thought  it  was,  and  that  was  when  he  shut  his  eyes  and 
listened  to  Katherine's  voice  floating  up,  up,  up,  like  an  angel's, 
into  the  sky.  But  sometimes  he  knew  it  was  not  ;  and  that 
was  when  he  caught  himself  in  the  middle  of  Caesar's  might- 
iest prayers  crooking  his  neck  past  the  pitching  bald  pate  of 
Johnny  Niplightly,  the  constable,  that  he  might  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  top  of  Katherine's  bonnet  when  her  eyes  were  down. 

Pete  fell  into  a  melancholy,  and  once  more  took  to  music 
as  a  comforter.  It  was  not  a  home-made  whistle  now,  but  a 
fiddle  bought  out  of  his  wages.  On  this  he  played  in  the 
cowhouse  on  winter  evenings,  and  from  the  top  of  the  midden 
outside  in  summer.  When  Ceesar  heard  of  it  his  wrath  was 
fearful.  What  was  a  fiddler  ?  He  was  a  servant  of  corrup- 
tion, holding  a  candle  to  disorderly  walkers  and  happy  sin- 
ners on  their  way  into  the  devil's  pinfold.  x\nd  what  for  was 
fiddles  ?  Fiddles  was  for  play-actors  and  theaytres.  "  And 
theaytres  is  there, ''^  said  Caesar,  indicating  with  his  foot  one 
flag  on  the  kitchen-floor,  "  and  hell  flames  is  f/iere,"  he  added, 
rolling  his  toe  over  to  the  joint  of  the  next  one. 

Grannie  began  to  plead.  What  was  a  fiddle  if  you  played 
the  right  tunes  on  it  ?  Didn't  they  read  in  the  ould  Book  of 
King  David  himself  playing  on  harps  and  timbrels  and  such 
things  ?  And  what  was  harps  but  fiddles  in  a  way  of  spak- 
ing  ?  Then  warn't  they  all  looking  to  be  playing  harps  in 
heaven  ?  'Deed,  yes,  though  the  Lord  would  have  to  be  teach- 
ing her  how  to  play  hers  ! 

Caesar  was  shaken.  "Well,  of  course,  certainly,"  he  said, 
''  if  there's  a  power  in  fiddling  to  bring  souls  out  of  bondage, 
and  if  there's  going  to  be  fiddling  and  the  like  in  Abraham's 
bosom— wliy,  then,  of  course — well,  why  not  ? — let's  have  the 
lad's  fiddle  up  at '  The  Christians.'  " 

Nothing  could  have  suited  Pete  so  well.  From  that  time 
forward  he  went  out  no  more  at  nights  to  the  cowhouse,  but 
stayed  indoors  to  practise  hymns  with  Katherine.     Oh,  the 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  31 

terrible  rapture  of  those  nightly  "practices  !"  They  brought 
people  to  the  inn  to  hear  them,  and  so  Caesar  found  them  good 
for  profit  both  ways. 

There  was  something  in  Caesar's  definition,  nevertheless. 
It  was  found  that  among  the  saints  there  were  certain  weaker 
brethren  who  did  not  want  a  hymn  to  their  ale.  One  of  these 
was  Johnny  Niplightly,  the  rural  constable,  who  was  the 
complement  of  Katherine  in  the  choir,  being  leader  of  the 
singing  among  the  men.  He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  long  nose, 
v/hich  seemed  to  have  a  perpetual  cold.  Making  his  rounds 
one  night,  he  turned  in  at  "  The  Manx  Fairy,"  when  Cassar 
and  Grannie  were  both  from  home,  and  Nancy  Joe  was  in 
charge,  and  Pete  and  Katherine  were  practising  a  revival 
chorus. 

"  Where's  Csssar,  dough  ? "  he  snuffled. 

"  At  Peel,  buying  the  stock,"  snapped  Nancy. 

"  Dank  de  Lord  !     I  mean — where's  Grannie  ? " 

"Nursing  Mistress  Quiggin." 

Niplightly  eased  the  strap  of  his  beaver,  liberated  his  lips, 
took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  and  then  turned  to  Pete,  v;ith 
apologetic  smiles,  and  suggested  a  change  in  the  music. 

At  that  Katherine  leapt  up  as  light  as  laughter.  "  A  dance," 
she  cried,  ''  a  dance  I  " 

"  Good  sakes  alive  ? "  said  Nancy  Joe.  "  Listen  to  the  girl  ? 
Is  it  the  moon,  Kitty,  or  what  is  it  that's  doing  on  you  ?  " 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Nancy,"  said  Katherine,  "  just  for  once, 
now  won't  you  ?  " 

''You  can  do  what  you  like  with  me,  with  j^our  coaxing 
and  woaxing,"  said  Nancy.  "  Enjoy  yourself  to  the  full,  girl, 
but  don't  make  a  noise  above  the  singing  of  the  kettle." 

Pete  tuned  his  strings,  and  Katherine  pinned  up  the  tail  of 
her  skirt,  and  threw  herself  into  position. 

At  the  sound  of  the  livelier  preludings  there  came  throng- 
ing out  of  the  road  into  the  parlour  certain  fellows  of  the 
baser  sort,  and  behind  them  came  one  who  was  not  of  that 
denomination — a  fair  young  man  with  a  fine  face  under  an 
Alpine  hat.  Heeding  nothing  of  this  audience,  the  girl  gave 
a  little  rakish  toss  of  her  head  and  called  on  Pete  to  strike  up. 

Then  Pete  plunged  into  one  of  the  profaner  tunes  which 
he  had  practised  in  the  days  of  the  cowhouse,  and  off  went 
Katherine  with  a  whoop.     The  boys  stood  back  for  her,  bend- 


32  THE  MANXMAN. 

in<r  down  on  their  haunches  as  at  a  fight  of  gamecocks,  and 
encouraging  her  with  shouts  of  applause. 

"  Beautiful  I  Look  at  that  now  !  Fine,  though,  fine  ! 
Clane  done,  aw,  clane  !  Done  to  a  dot  !  There's  leaping  for 
you,  boj's  !  Guy  heng,  did  you  ever  see  the  like  ?  Hommer 
the  floor,  girl — higher  a  piece  !  higher,  then  !  Whoop,  did 
ye  ever  see  such  a  nate  pair  of  ankles  ? " 

*'  Hould  your  dirty  tongue,  you  gobmouthed  omathaun  ! " 
cried  Nancy  Joe.  She  had  tried  to  keep  her  eyes  away,  but 
could  not.  "  lnhf  goodness  grayshers  ! "  she  cried.  '*  Did  you 
ever  see  the  like,  though  ?  Screwing  like  the  windmill  on  the 
schoolhouse!  Well,  well,  Kitty,  woman !  Aw,  Kirry,  Kirry ! 
Wherever  did  she  get  it,  then  ?  Goodsakes,  the  girl's  twisting 
herself  into  knots  !  " 

Pete  was  pulling  away  at  the  fiddle  with  both  hands,  like 
a  bottom  sawyer,  his  eyes  dancing,  his  lips  quivering,  the 
whole  soul  of  the  lad  lifted  out  of  himself  in  an  instant. 

"  Hould  on  still,  Kate,  hould  on,  girl  ! ''  he  shouted.  "  Ma- 
chree  I    Machree  !     The  darling's  dancing  like  a  drumstick  ! " 

"  Faster  ! "  cried  Kate.     "  Faster  !  " 

The  red  ribbon  had  fallen  from  her  head,  and  the  wavy 
black  hair  was  tumbling  about  her  face.  She  was  holding  up 
her  skirt  with  one  hand,  ancf  the  other  arm  was  akimbo  at  her 
waist.  Guggling,  chuckling,  crowing,  panting,  boiling,  and 
bubbling  with  the  animal  life  which  all  her  days  had  been 
suppressed,  and  famished  and  starved  into  moans  and  groans, 
she  was  carried  away  by  her  own  fire,  gave  herself  up  to  it, 
and  danced  on  the  flags  of  the  kitchen  which  had  served  Caesar 
for  his  practical  typology,  like  a  creature  intoxicated  with  new 
breath. 

Meantime  Cassar  himself,  coming  home  in  his  chapel  hat 
(liis  tall  black  beaver)  from  Peel,  where  he  had  been  buying 
the  year's  stock  of  herrings  at  the  boat's  side,  had  overtaken, 
on  the  road,  the  venerable  parson  of  his  parish,  Parson  Quig- 
gin  of  Lezayre.  Drawing  up  the  gig  with  a  "  Woa  ! "  he  had 
invited  the  old  clergyman  to  a  lift  by  his  side  on  the  gig's  seat, 
whicli  wa.s  cushioned  with  a  sack  of  hay.  The  parson  had  ac- 
cepted the  invitation,  and  with  a  preliminary  "  Aisy  !  Your 
legs  a  taste  higher,  sir,  just  to  keep  the  pickle  off  your  trou- 
sers," a  "  Gee  up  ! "  and  a  touch  of  the  whip,  they  were  away 
together,  with  the  light  of  the  gig-lamp  on  the  hind-quarters 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  33 

of  the  mare,  as  they  bobbed  and  screwed  like  a  mill-race  under 
the  splash-board. 

It  was  Caesar's  chance,  and  he  took  it.  Having  pinned  one 
of  the  heads  of  the  Church,  he  gave  him  his  views  on  the 
Romans,  and  on  the  general  encroachment  of  Popery.  The 
parson  listened  complacently.  He  was  a  tolerant  old  soul, 
with  a  round  face,  expressive  of  perpetual  happiness,  though 
he  was  always  blinking  his  little  eyes  and  declaring,  with  the 
Preacher,  that  all  earthly  things  were  vain.  Hence  he  was 
nicknamed  Old  Vanity  of  Vanities. 

The  gig  had  swept  past  Sulby  Chapel  when  Csesar  began 
to  ask  for  the  parson's  opinion  of  certain  texts. 

"  And  may  I  presume,  Pazon  Quiggin,  w^hat  d'ye  think  of 
the  text — '  Praise  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and  all  that  is  within 
me  praise  His  Holy  Name  ? '  " 

'•  A  very  good  text  after  meat,  Mr.  Cregeen,"  said  the  par- 
son, blinking  his  little  eyes  in  the  dark. 

It  was  Caesar's  favourite  text,  and  his  fire  was  kindled  at 
the  parson's  praise.  "Man  alive,''  he  cried,  his  hot  breath 
tickling  the  parson's  neck,  ''I've  praiched  on  that  text,  pazon, 
till  it's  wet  me  through  to  the  waistcoat." 

They  were  near  to  "  The  Manx  Fairy  "  by  this  time. 

"  And  talking  of  praise,"  said  Csesar,  "  I  hear  them  there  at 
their  practices.  Asking  pardon  now — it's  proud  I'd  be,  sir — 
perhaps  you'd  not  be  thinking  mane  to  come  in  and  hear  the 
way  w^e  do  '  Crown  Him  ! '  " 

"  So  the  saints  use  the  fiddle,"  said  the  parson,  as  the  gig 
drew' up  at  the  porch  of  the  inn. 

Half  a  minute  afterwards  the  door  of  the  parlour  flew  open 
with  a  bang,  and  Caesar  stood  and  glared  on  the  threshold 
with  the  parson's  ruddy  face  behind  him.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence.  The  uplifted  toe  of  Katherine  trailed  back  to 
the  ground,  the  fiddle  of  Pete  slithered  to  his  farther  side,  and 
the  smacking  lips  of  Niplightly  transfixed  themselves  agape. 
Then  the  voice  of  the  parson  was  heard  to  say,  "  Vanity,  van- 
ity, all  is  vanity ! "  and  suddenly  Caesar,  still  on  the  threshold, 
went  down  on  his  knees  to  pray. 

Caesar's  prayer  was  only  a  short  one.  His  mortified  pride 
called  for  quicker  solace.  Rising  to  his  feet  with  as  much 
dignity  as  he  could  command  under  the  tv.dnkling  eyes  of  the 
parson,  he  stuttered,  "  The  capers  !     Making  a  dacent  house 


Si  THE  MANXMAN. 

into  a  theaytre  !  Respectable  person,  too— one  of  the  first 
that's  going  !  So,"  facing  the  spectators,  "  just  help  your- 
selves home  the  pack  of  you  !  As  for  these  ones."  turning  on 
Kate,  Pete,  and  the  constable,  "there'll  be  no  more  of  your 
practices.  I'll  do  without  the  music  of  three  saints  like  you. 
In  future  I'll  have  three  sinners  to  raise  my  singing.  These 
polices,  too  I "  he  said  with  a  withering  smile.  (Niplightly 
was  worming  his  way  out  at  the  back  of  Parson  Quiggin.) 

"  Who  began  it  ? "  shouted  Cassar,  looking  at  Katherine. 

From  the  moment  that  Cassar  dropped  on  his  knees  at  the 
door,  Pete  had  been  well-nigh  choked  by  an  impulse  to  laugh 
aloud.     But  now  he  bit  his  lip  and  said,  "  I  did  !  " 

''  Behould  ye  now,  as  imperent  as  a  goat  ! "  said  Caesar, 
working  his  eyebrows  vigorouslj^.  "You've  mistaken  your 
profession,  boy.  It's  a  play-actorer  they  ought  to  be  making 
of  you.  You're  wasting  your  time  with  a  plain,  respectable 
man  like  me.  You  must  lave  me.  Away  to  the  loft  for  your 
chiss,  boy  !  And  just  give  sheet,  my  lad,  and  don't  lay  to  till 
you've  fetched  up  at  another  lodgings." 

Pete,  with  his  eye  on  the  parson's  face,  could  control  him- 
self no  longer,  and  he  laughed  so  loud  that  the  room  rang. 

"Right's  the  word,  ould  Nebucannezzar,"  he  cried,  and 
heaved  up  to  his  feet.  ''  So  long,  Kitty,  woman  !  S'long  ! 
We'll  finish  it  another  night  though,  and  then  the  ould  man 
himself  will  be  houlding  the  candle.'' 

Outside  in  the  road  somebody  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der.    It  was  the  young  man  in  the  Alpine  hat. 

"  My  gough  !  What  ?  Phil  ! "  cried  Pete,  and  he  laid  hold 
of  him  with  both  hands  at  once. 

"  I've  just  finished  at  King  William's  and  bought  a  boat,'' 
said  Philip,  "  and  I  came  up  to  ask  you  to  join  me — congers 
and  cods,  you  know — good  fun  anyway.     Are  you  willing  ?" 

"  Willing  !  "  cried  Pete.     "  Am  I  jumping  for  joy  ? " 

And  away  they  went  down  the  road,  swinging  their  legs 
together  with  a  lively  step. 

"  That's  a  nice  girl,  though— Kitty,  Kate,  what  do  you  call 
her  ? "  said  Phil. 

"  Were  you  in  then  ?  So  you  saw  her  dancing  ?  "  said  Pete 
eagerly.  "  Aw,  yes,  nice,"  he  said  warmly,  "  nice  uncom- 
mon," he  added  absently,  and  then  with  a  touch  of  sadness, 
"shocking  nice  !'' 


BOYS  TOGEXnEPv.  35 

Presently  they  heard  the  pattering  of  light  feet  in  the 
darkness  behind  them,  and  a  voice  like  .a  broken  cry  calling 
''Pete!" 

It  was  Kate.  She  came  up  panting  and  catching  her  breath 
in  hiccoughs,  took  Pete's  face  in  both  her  hands,  drew  it  down 
to  her  own  face,  kissed  it  on  the  mouth,  and  w^as  gone  again 
without  a  word. 


VI. 

Philip  had  not  been  a  success  at  school  ;  he  had  narrowly 
escaped  being  a  failure.  During  his  earlier  years  he  had 
shown  industry  without  gifts  ;  during  his  later  years  he  had 
shown  gifts  without  industry.  His  childish  saying  became 
his  by-word,  and  half  in  sport,  half  in  earnest,  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  and  a  shuddering  sense  of  fascination,  he  would  say 
when  the  wind  freshened,  "  The  sea's  calling  me,  I  must  be 
off."  The  blood  of  the  old  sea-dog,  his  mother's  father,  was 
strong  in  him.  Idleness  led  to  disaster,  and  disaster  to  some 
disgrace.  He  was  indifferent  to  both  while  at  school,  but 
shame  found  him  out  at  home. 

"You'll  be  sixteen  for  spring,"  said  Auntie  Nan,  "and 
what  would  your  poor  father  say  if  he  were  alive  ?  He 
thought  worlds  of  his  boy,  and  always  said  what  a  man  he 
would  be  some  day." 

That  was  the  shaft  that  found  Philip.  The  one  passion 
that  burned  in  his  heart  like  a  fire  was  reverence  for  the  name 
and  the  will  of  his  dead  father.  The  big  hopes  of  the  broken 
man  had  sometimes  come  as  a  torture  to  the  boy  when  the 
blood  of  the  old  salt  was  rioting  within  him.  But  now  they 
came  as  a  spur, 

Philip  w^ent  back  to  school  and  worked  like  a  slave.  There 
were  only  three  terms  left,  and  it  was  too  late  for  high  hon- 
ours, but  the  boy  did  wonders.  He  came  out  well,  and  the 
mastei's  were  astonished.  "  After  all,"  they  said,  "  there's  no 
denying  it,  the  boy  Christian  must  have  the  gift  of  genius. 
There's  nothing  he  might  not  do." 

If  Phil  had  much  of  the  blood  of  Captain  Billy,  Pete  had 
much  of  the  blood  of  Black  Tom.  After  leaving  the  mill  at 
Sulby,  Pete  made  his  home  in  the  cabin  of  the  smack.  What 
he  was  to  eat,  and  how  he  was  to  be  clothed,  and  where  he  was 


36  THE  MANXMAN. 

to  be  lodged  when  the  cold  nights  came,  never  troubled  his 
mind  for  an  instant.  He  had  tine  times  with  his  partner. 
The  terms  of  their  partnership  were  simple.  Phil  took  the 
fun  and  made  Pete  take  the  fish.  They  v.-ere  a  pair  of  happy- 
go-lucky  lads,  and  they  looked  to  the  future  with  cheerful 
faces. 

There  was  one  shadow  over  their  content,  and  that  was  the 
ghost  of  a  gleam  of  sunshine.  It  made  daylight  between  them, 
though,  day  by  daj*  as  they  ran  together  like  two  that  run  a 
race.  The  prize  was  Katherine  Cregeen.  Pete  talked  of  her 
till  Phil's  heart  awoke  and  trembled  ;  but  Phil  hardly  knew 
it  was  so,  and  Pete  never  once  suspected  it.  Neither  confessed 
to  the  other,  and  the  shifts  of  both  to  hide  the  secret  of  each 
were  boyish  and  beautiful. 

There  is  a  river  famous  for  trout  that  rises  in  Sulby  glen 
and  flows  into  Ramsey  harbour.  One  of  the  little  attempts  of 
the  two  lads  to  deceive  each  other  was  to  make  believe  that  it 
was  their  duty  to  fish  this  river  with  the  rod,  and  so  wander 
away  singly  up  the  banks  of  the  stream  until  they  came  to 
''  The  Manx  Fairy,"  and  then  drop  in  casually  to  quench  the 
thirst  of  so  much  angling.  Towards  the  dusk  of  evening 
Philip,  in  a  tall  silk  hat  over  a  jacket  and  knickerbockers, 
would  come  upon  Pete  by  the  Sulby  bridge,  washed,  combed, 
and  in  a  collar.  Then  there  would  be  looks  of  great  sui'prise 
on  both  sides.  ''  Whai,  Phil  !  Is  it  yourself,  though  ?  Just 
thought  I'd  see  if  the  t'-outs  were  bitiug  to-night.  Dear  me, 
this  is  Sulby  too  !  And  bless  my  soul,  'The  Fairy'  again  ! 
Well,  a  drop  of  drink  will  do  no  harm.  Shall  we  put  a  sight 
on  them  inside,  eh  V  After  that  prelude  they  would  go  into 
the  house  together. 

This  little  comedy  was  acted  every  night  for  weeks.  It 
was  acted  on  Hollantide  Eve  six  months  after  Pete  had  been 
turned  out  by  Caesar.  Grannie  was  sitting  by  the  glass  parti- 
tion, knitting  at  intervals,  serving  at  the  counter  occasionally 
and  scoring  up  on  a  black  board  that  was  a  mass  of  chalk 
hieroglyphics.  Cassar  himself  in  ponderous  spectacles  and 
with  a  big  book  in  his  hands  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen  behind 
with  his  back  to  the  glass,  so  as  to  make  the  lamp  of  the  busi- 
ness serve  also  for  his  studies.  On  a  bench  in  the  bar  sat 
Black  Tom,  smoking,  spitting,  scraping  his  feet  on  the  sanded 
floor,  and  looking  like  a  gigantic  spider  with  enormous  bald 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  37 

head.  At  his  side  was  a  thin  man  with  a  face  pitted  by  small- 
pox, and  a  forehead  covered  with  strange  protuberances.  This 
was  Jonaique  Jelly,  barber,  clock-mender,  and  Manx  patriot. 
The  postman  was  there,  too,  Kelly  the  Thief,  a  tiny  creature 
with  twinkling  ferret  eyes,  and  a  face  that  had  a  settled  look 
of  age,  as  of  one  born  old,  being  wrinkled  in  squares  like  the 
pointing  of  a  cobble  wall. 

At  sight  of  Pete,  Grannie  made  way,  and  he  pushed  through 
to  the  kitchen,  where  he  seated  himself  in  a  seat  in  the  fire- 
place just  in  front  of  the  peat  closet,  and  under  the  fish  hang- 
ing to  smoke.  At  sight  of  Phil  she  dropped  her  needles, 
smoothed  her  front  hair,  rose  in  spite  of  protest,  and  wiped 
down  a  chair  by  the  ingle.  Caesar  eyed  Pete  in  silence  from 
between  the  top  rim  of  his  spectacles  and  the  bottom  edge  of 
the  big  book  ;  but  as  Philip  entered  he  lowered  the  book  and 
welcomed  him.  Nancy  Joe  was  coming  and  going  in  her 
clogs  like  a  rip-rap  let  loose  between  the  dairy  and  a  pot  of 
potatoes  in  their  jackets  which  swung  from  the  slowrie,  the 
hook  over  the  fire.  A  moment  later  Kate  came  flitting 
through  the  half-lit  kitchen,  her  black  eyes  dancing  and  her 
mouth  rippling  in  smiles.  She  courtesied  to  Philip,  grimaced 
at  Pete,  and  disappeared. 

Then  from  the  other  side  of  the  glass  partition  came  the 
husky  voice  of  the  postman,  saying,  "Well,  I  must  be  taking 
the  road,  gentlemen.  There's  Manx  ones  starting  for  Kim- 
berley  by  the  early  sailing  to-morrow  morning." 

And  then  came  the  voice  of  the  barber  in  a  hoarse  falsetto  : 
"  Kimberley  !  That's  the  place  for  good  men  I'm  always  say- 
ing. There's  Billy  the  Red  back  home  with  a  fortune.  And 
ould  Corlett — look  at  ould  Corlett,  the  Ballabeg  !  Five  years 
away  at  the  diggings,  and  left  a  house  worth  twenty  pounds 
per  year  per  annum,  not  to  spake  of  other  hereditaments." 

After  that  the  rasping  voice  of  Black  Tom,  in  a  tone  of 
irony  and  contempt :  ''  Of  coorse,  aw,  yes,  of  coorse,  there's 
goold  on  the  cushags  there,  they're  telling  me.  But  I  thought 
you  were  a  man  that's  all  for  the  island,  Mr.  Jelly." 

"Lave  me  alone  for  that,"  said  the  voice  of  the  barber. 
"  Manx-land  for  the  Manx-man — that's  the  text  I'm  houlding 
to.  But  what's  it  saying, '  Custom  must  be  indulged  with  cus- 
tom, or  custom  will  die  ? '  And  with  these  English  scouring 
over  it  like  puffins  on  the  Calf,  it  isn't  much  that's  left  of  the 


38  THE  MANXMAN. 

ould  island  but  the  name.  The  best  of  the  Manx  bo3's  are  go- 
ing away  foreign,  same  as  these  ones." 

''Well,  I've  letters  for  them  to  the  packet-office  anyway," 
said  the  postman. 

"  Who  are  they,  Mr.  Kelly  ? "  called  Philip,  through  the 
doorway. 

""  Some  of  the  Quarks  ones  from  Glen  Rushen,  sir,  and  the 
Gills  boys  from  Castletown  over.  Good-night  all,  good- 
night !" 

The  door  closed  behind  the  postman,  and  Black  Tom 
growled,  "  Slips  of  lads — I  know  them." 

''  Smart  though,  smart  uncommon,"  said  the  barber  ; 
"that's  the  only  sort  they're  wanting  out  yonder." 

There  was  a  contemptuous  snort.  "  So  ?  You'd  better  go 
to  Kimbcrley  yourself,  then." 

"  Turn  the  clock  back  a  piece  and  I'll  start  before  you've 
time  to  curl  your  hair,"  said  the  barber. 

Black  Tom  was  lifting  his  pot.  "  That's  the  one  thing," 
said  he,  "the  Almighty  Himself"  (gulp,  gulp)  "can't  do." 

"  Which  ?  "  tittered  the  barber. 

"  Both,"  said  Black  Tom,  scratching  his  big  head,  as  bald 
as  a  bladder. 

Csesar  flashed  about  with  his  face  to  the  glass  partition. 
"You're  like  the  rest  of  the  infidels,  sir,"  said  he,  "only  spak- 
ing  to  contradick  yourself — calling  God  the  Almighty,  and 
telling  in  the  same  breath  of  something  He  can't  do." 

Meanwhile  an  encounter  of  another  sort  was  going  on  at 
the  ingle.  Kate  had  re-appeared  with  a  table  fork  which  she 
used  at  intervals  to  test  the  boiling  of  the  potatoes.  At  each 
approach  to  the  fire  she  passed  close  to  where  Pete  sat,  never 
looking  at  Phil  above  the  level  of  his  boots.  And  as  often  as 
she  bent  over  the  pot,  Pete  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  being 
so  near  and  so  tempting.  For  thus  pestering  her  she  beat  her 
foot  like  a  goat,  and  screwed  on  a  look  of  anger  which  broke 
down  in  a  stifled  laugh  ;  but  she  always  took  care  to  come 
again  to  Pete's  side  rather  than  to  Phil's,  until  at  last  the 
nudging  and  shoving  ended  in  a  pinch  and  a  little  squeal,  and 
a  quick  cry  of  "  What's  that  ?  "  from  Caesar. 

Kate  vanished  like  a  flash,  the  dim  room  began  to  frown 
again,  and  Phil  to  draw  his  breath  heavily,  when  the  girl 
came  back  as  suddenly  bringing  an  apple  and  a  length  of 


BOYS   TOGETHER.  39 

string-.  Mounting  a  chair,  she  fixed  one  end  of  the  string  to 
the  lath  of  the  ceiling  by  the  peck,  the  parchment  oatcake  pan, 
and  the  other  end  she  tied  to  the  stalk  of  the  apple. 

"■  What's  the  jeel  now  ? ''  said  Pete. 

"  Fancy  !  Don't  you  know  ?  Not  heard  '  Hop-tu-naa '  ? 
It's  Hollantide  Eve,  man,"  said  Kate. 

Then  setting  the  string  going  like  a  pendulum,  she  stood 
back  a  pace  with  hands  clasped  behind  her,  and  snapped  at 
the  apple  as  it  swung,  sometimes  catching  it,  sometimes  miss- 
ing it,  sometimes  marking  it,  sometimes  biting  it,  her  body 
bending  and  rising  with  its  waggle,  and  nod,  and  bob,  her 
mouth  opening  and  closing,  her  white  teeth  gleaming,  and 
her  whole  face  bubbling  over  with  delight.  At  every  touch 
the  speed  increased,  and  the  laughter  grew  louder  as  the  apple 
went  faster.  Everybody,  except  the  miller,  joined  in  the  fun. 
Phil  cried  out  on  the  girl  to  look  to  her  teeth,  but  Pete  egged 
her  on  to  test  the  strength  of  them. 

"  Snap  at  it,  Kitty  !  "  cried  Pete.  "  Aw,  lost  !  Lost  again  ! 
Ow  !     One  iu  the  cheek  !     No  matter  !     Done  !  " 

And  Black  Tom  and  Mr.  Jelly  stood  up  to  watch  through 
the  doorway,  "  My  goodness  grayshers  !  "  cried  one.  ''  What 
a  mouthful  !  "  said  the  other.  "  Share  it,  Kitty,  woman  ;  aw, 
share  and  share  alike,  you  know." 

But  then  came  the  thunderous  tones  of  Caesar.  "  Drop  it, 
drop  it  !     Such  practices  is  nothing  but  Popery." 

''Popery!"  cried  Black  Tom  from  over  the  counter. 
"  Chut  !  nonsense,  man  !  The  like  of  it  v/as  going  before 
St.  Patrick  was  born." 

Kate  was  puffing  and  panting  and  taking  down  the  pen- 
dulum. 

"  What  does  it  mean  then,  Tom  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  it's  you  for 
knowing  things." 

"  Mane  ?    It  manes  fairies  ! " 

"  Fairies  ! " 

Black  Tom  sat  down  with  a  complacent  air,  and  his  rasp- 
ing voice  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  glass.  "  In  the  ould 
times  gone  by,  girl,  before  Manxmen  got  too  big  for  their 
breeches,  they'd  be  off  to  bed  by  ten  o'clock  on  Hollantide 
Eve  to  lave  room  for  the  little  people  that's  outside  to  come 
in.  And  the  big  woman  of  the  house  would  be  filling  the 
crocks  for  the  fairies  to  drink,  and  the  big  man  himself  would 


40  THE   MANXMAN. 

be  raking  the  ashes  so  they  might  bake  their  cakes,  and  a  girl, 
same  as  you,  would  be  going  to  bed  backwards " 

''/know  !  /know  !"  cried  Kate,  near  to  the  ceiling,  and 
clapping  her  hands.  "  She  eats  a  roasted  apple,  and  goes  to 
bed  thirsty,  and  then  dreams  that  somebody  brings  her  a 
drink  of  water,  and  that's  the  one  that's  to  be  her  hus- 
band, eh  ? " 

"You've  got  it,  girl." 

Ca?sar  had  been  listening  with  his  eyes  turned  sideways 
off  his  book,  and  now  he  cried,  "  Then  drop  it,  I'm  telling  you. 
It's  nothing  but  instruments  of  Satan,  and  the  ones  that's 
telling  it  are  just  flying  in  the  face  of  faith  from  superstition 
and  contrariety.  It  isn't  daceut  in  a  Christian  public-house, 
and  I'm  for  ha\^ng  no  more  of  it." 

Grannie  paused  in  her  knitting,  fixed  her  cap  with  one  of 
her  needles  and  said,  "  Dear  heart,  father  !  Tom  meant  no 
harm."  Then,  glancing  at  the  clock  and  rising,  "But  it's 
time  to  shut  up  the  house,  anyway.  Good  night,  Tom  ! 
Good  night  all  !     Good  night  ! " 

Phil  and  Pete  rose  also.  Pete  went  to  the  door  and  pre- 
tended to  look  out,  then  came  back  to  Kate's  side  and  whis- 
pered, "  Come,  give  them  the  sli^D — there's  somebody  outside 
that's  waiting  for  you." 

"  Let  them  wait,''  said  the  girl,  but  she  laughed,  and  Pete 
knew  she  would  come.  Then  he  turned  to  Philip,  "  A  word 
in  your  ear,  Phil,"  he  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
drew  him  out  of  the  house  and  round  to  the  yard  of  the  stable. 

"  Well,  good  night,  Grannie,"  said  Mr.  Jelly,  going  out  be- 
hind them.  "  But  if  I  were  as  young  as  your  grandson  there, 
Mr.  Quilliam,  I  would  be  making  a  start  for  somewhere." 

"  Grandson  I "  grunted  Tom,  heaving  up,  "  I've  got  no 
grandson,  or  he  wouldn't  be  laving  me  to  smoke  a  diy 
pipe.  But  he's  making  an  Almighty  of  this  Phil  Christian — 
that's -it." 

After  they  were  gone,  Grannie  began  counting  the  till  and 
saying,  ''  As  for  fairies — one,  two,  three — it  may  be,  as  Cj^sar 
says— four — five — the  like  isn't  in,  but  it's  safer  to  be  civil  to 
them  anyway." 

"  Aw,  yes,"  said  Nancy  Joe,  "a  crock  of  fresh  water  and  a 
few  good  words  going  to  bed  on  Hollantide  Eve  does  no  harm 
at  all,  at  all." 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  41 

Outside  in  the  stable-yard  the  feet  of  Black  Tom  and  Jo- 
naique  Jelly  were  heard  going  off  on  the  road.  The  late 
moon  was  hanging  low,  red  as  an  evening  sun,  over  the  hill 
to  the  south-east.  Pete  was  puffing  and  blowing  as  if  he  had 
been  running  a  race.  "  Quick,  boy,  quick  ! "  he  was  whis- 
pering, '•  Kate's  coming.  A  word  in  your  ear  first.  Will  you 
do  me  a  turn,  Phil  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  Spake  to  the  ould  man  for  me  while  I  spake  to  the  girl  !  " 

''  What  about  ?  "  said  Philip. 

But  Pete  could  heai;  nothing  except  his  own  voice.  "  The 
ould  angel  herself,  she's  all  right,  but  the  ould  man's  hard. 
Spake  for  me,  Phil  ;  you've  got  the  fine  English  tongue  at 

you." 

"  But  what  about  ?  "  Philip  said  again. 

''  Say  I  may  be  a  bit  of  a  rip,  but  I'm  not  such  a  bad  sort 
anyway.  Make  me  out  a  taste,  Phil,  and  praise  me  up.  Say 
I'll  be  as  good  as  goold  ;  yes,  will  I  though.  Tell  him  he  has 
only  to  say  yes,  and  I'll  be  that  studdy  and  willing  and  hard- 
working and  persevering  you  never  seen." 

"But,  Pete,  Pete,  Pete,  whatever  am  I  to  say  all  this 
about  ? " 

Pete's  puffing  and  panting  ceased.  "What  about  ?  Why, 
about  the  girl  for  sure." 

"  The  girl  !  "  said  Philip. 

"  ¥/hat  else  ?  "  said  Pete. 

"  Kate  ?    Am  I  to  speak  for  you  to  the  father  for  Kate  ?  " 

Philip's  voice  seemed  to  come  up  from  the  bottom  depths 
of  his  throat. 

"  Are  you  thinking  hard  of  the  job,  Phil  ? " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  blood  had  rushed  to 
Philip's  face,  which  was  full  of  strange  matter,  but  the  dark- 
ness concealed  it. 

"  I  didn't  say  that,"  he  faltered. 

Pete  mistook  Philip's  hesitation* for  a  silent  commentary 
on  his  own  un worthiness.  "I  know  I'm  only  a  sort  of  a 
waistrel,"  he  said,  "but,  Phil,  the  way  I'm  loving  that  girl  it's 
shocking.  I  can  never  take  rest  for  thinking  of  her.  No,  I'm 
not  sleeping  at  night  nor  working  reg'lar  in  the  day  neither. 
Everything  is  telling  of  her,  and  everything  is  shouting  her 
name.     It's  '  Kate '  in  the  sea,  and  '  Kate '  in  the  river,  and  the 


42  THE   MxVNXMAN. 

trees  and  the  gorse.  '  Kate,'  '  Kate,'  '  Kate,'  it's  Kate  constant, 
and  I  can't  stand  much  more  of  it.  I'm  loving  the  girl 
scandalous,  that's  the  truth,  Phil." 

Pete  paused,  but  Philip  gave  no  sign. 

"  It's  hard  to  praise  me,  that's  sarten  sure,"  said  Pete,  "  but 
I've  known  her  since  she  was  a  little  small  thing  in  pinafores, 
and  I  was  a  slip  of  a  big  boy,  and  went  into  trousers,  and  we 
played  Blondin  in  the  glen  together." 

Still  Philip  did  not  speak.  He  was  gripping  the  stable- 
wall  with  his  trembling  fingers,  and  struggling  for  composure. 
Pete  scraped  the  paving-stones  at  his  feet,  and  mumbled  again 
in  a  voice  that  was  near  to  breaking.  "  Spake  for  me,  Phil. 
It's  you  to  do  it.  You've  the  way  of  saying  things,  and  mak- 
ing them  out  to  look  something.  It  would  be  clane  ruined  in 
a  jifPy  if  I  did  it  for  myself.  Spake  for  me,  boy,  now  won't 
you,  now  ? " 

Still  Philip  was  silent.  He  was  doing  his  best  to  swallow 
a  lump  in  his  throat.  His  heart  had  begun  to  know  itself.  In 
the  light  of  Pete's  confession  he  had  read  his  own  secret.  To 
give  the  girl  up  was  one  thing ;  it  was  another  to  plead  for 
her  for  Pete.  But  Pete's  trouble  touched  him.  The  lump  at 
his  throat  w^ent  down,  and  the  fingers  on  the  wall  slacked 
away.     "I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  only  his  voice  was  like  a  sob. 

Then  he  tried  to  go  ofi"  hastily  that  he  might  hide  the  emo- 
tion that  came  over  him  like  a  flood  that  had  broken  its  dam. 
But  Pete  gripped  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  peered  into  his 
face  in  the  dark.  "  You  will,  though,"  said  Pete,  with  a  little 
shout  of  joy  ;  "then  it's  as  good  as  done  ;  God  bless  you,  old 
fellow." 

Philip  began  to  roll  about.  "Tut,  it's  nothing,"  he  said, 
with  a  stout  heart,  and  then  he  laughed  a  laugh  with  a  cry  in 
it.  He  could  have  said  no  more  without  breaking  down  ;  but 
just  then  a  flash  of  light  fell  on  them  from  the  house,  and  a 
hushed  voice  cried,  "  Pete  !  " 

"  It's  herself,"  whispered  Pete.  "  She's  coming  !  She's 
here  ! " 

Philip  turned,  and  saw  Kate  in  the  doorway  of  the  dairy, 
the  sweet  young  figure  framed  like  a  silhouette  by  the  light 
behind. 

"  I'm  going  ! "  said  Philip,  and  he  edged  up  to  the  house  as 
the  girl  stepped  out. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  43 

Pete  followed  him  a  step  or  two  in  approaching  Kate. 
''Whist,  man  !"  he  whispered.  "Tell  the  old  geezer  I'll  be 
going  to  chapel  reglar  early  tides  and  late  shifts,  and  Sunday- 
school  constant.  And,  whist  !  tell  him  I'm  larning  myself  to 
play  on  the  harmonia." 

Then  Philip  slithered  softly  through  the  dairy  door,  and 
shut  it  after  him,  leaving  Kate  and  Pete  together. 


VII. 

The  kitchen  of  "  The  Manx  Fairy  "  was  now  savoury  with 
the  odour  of  herrings  roasting  in  their  own  brine,  and  musical 
with  the  crackling  and  frizzling  of  the  oil  as  it  dropped  into 
the  fire. 

''It's  a  long  way  back  to  Ballure,  Mrs.  Cregeen,"  said 
Philip,  popping  his  head  in  at  the  door  jamb.  "  May  I  stay  to 
a  bite  of  supper  ? " 

"Aw,  stay  and  welcome,"  said  Ccesar,  putting  down  the 
big  book,  and  Nancy  Joe  said  the  same,  dropping  her  high- 
pitched  voice  pei'ceptibly,  and  Grannie  said,  also,  "  Right  wel- 
come, sir,  if  you'll  not  be  thinking  mane  to  take  pot  luck  with 
us.  Potatoes  and  herrings,  Mr.  Christian  ;  just  a  Manxman's 
supper.     Lift  the  pot  off  the  slowrie,  Nancy." 

"Well,  and  isn't  he  a  Manxman  himself,  mother?"  said 
Caesar. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  Mr.  Cregeen,"  said  Philip,  laughing 
noisily.     "  If  I'm  not,  who  should  be,  eh  ?  '* 

"  And  Manxman  or  no  Manxman,  what  for  should  he  turn 
up  his  nose  at  herrings  same  as  these  ?  "  said  Nancy  Joe.  She 
was  dishing  up  a  bowlful.  "  Where'll  he  get  the  like  of  them  ? 
Not  in  England  over,  I'll  go  bail." 

"  Indeed,  no,  Nancy,"  said  Philip,  still  laughing  needlessly. 

"  And  if  they  had  them  there,  the  poor,  useless  creatures 
would  be  lost  to  cook  them." 

"  'Deed,  would  they,  Nancy,"  said  Grannie.  She  was  roll- 
ing the  potatoes  into  a  heap  on  to  the  bare  table.  "And 
Ave've  much  to  be  thankful  for,  with  potatoes  and  herrings 
three  times  a  day  ;  but  we  shouldn't  be  thinking  proud  of  our- 
selves  for  that." 

"Ask  the  gentleman  to  draw  up,  mother,"  said  Csesar. 
4 


44  THE  MANX  MAX. 

'*  Draw  up,  sir,  di^aw  up.  Here's  your  bowl  of  butter-milk.  A 
knife  and  fork,  Xaucv.  We're  no  people  for  knife  and  fork 
to  a  herring,  sir.  And  a  plate  for  Mr.  Christian,  woman  ;  a 
gentleman  usually  likes  a  plate.  Now  ate,  sir,  ate  and  wel- 
come—but where's  your  friend,  though  ? " 

"Pete!  oh  !  he's  not  far  off."  Saying  this,  Philip  inter- 
rupted his  laughter  to  distribute  sage  winks  between  Nancy 
Joe  and  Grannie. 

Cccsar  looked  around  witli  a  potato  half  peeled  in  his  fin- 
gers.    ''  And  the  girl — where's  Kate  ? "  he  asked. 

*'  She's  not  far  off  neither,"  said  Philip,  still  winking  vigor- 
ously. "  But  don't  trouble  about  them,  Mr.  Ci'egeen.  They'll 
want  no  supper.  They're  feeding  on  sweeter  things  than  her- 
rings even."  Saying  this  he  swallowed  a  gulp  with  another 
laugh. 

Ccesar  lifted  his  head  with  a  pinch  of  his  heri'ing  between 
finger  and  thumb  half  way  to  his  open  mouth.  ''Were  you 
spaking,  sir  ? "  he  said. 

At  that  Philip  laughed  immoderateh^  It  was  a  relief  to 
drown  with  laughter  the  riot  going  on  within. 

'*  Aw,  dear,  what's  agate  of  the  boy  ? "  thought  Grannie. 

"  Is  it  a  dog  bite  that's  working  on  him  ? "  thought  Nancy. 

"Speaking  !"  cried  Philip,  "of  course  I'm  speaking.  I've 
come  in  to  do  it,  Mr.  Cregeen — I've  come  in  to  speak  for  Pete. 
He's  fond  of  your  daughter,  Caesar,  and  wants  .your  good- will 
to  marry  her." 

"  Lord-a-massy  !  "  cried  Nancy  Joe. 

"  Dear  heart  alive  !  "  muttered  Grannie. 

"  Peter  Quilliam  ! ''  said  Cassar,  "  did  you  say  Peter  ? " 

"  I  did,  Mr.  Cregeen,  Peter  Quilliam,"  said  Philip  stoutly, 
"  my  friend  Pete,  a  rough  fellow,  perhaps,  and  v/ithout  much 
education,  but  the  best-hearted  lad  in  the  island.  Come  now, 
Caesar,  say  the  word,  sir,  and  make  the  young  people  happy." 

He  almost  foundered  over  that  last  word,  but  Caesar  kv'^pt 
him  up  with  a  searching  look. 

"  Why,  I  picked  him  out  of  the  streets,  as  you  might  say," 
said  Caesar. 

"So  you  did,  Mr.  Cregeen,  so  j^ou  did.  I  always  thought 
you  were  a  discerning  man,  Caesar.  What  do  you  say.  Gran- 
nie ?  It's  Caesar  for  knowing  a  deserving  lad  v.'hen  he  sees 
one,  ell  ? " 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  45 

He  gave  another  round  of  his  cunning  winks,  and  Grannie 
replied,  "  Aw,  well,  it's  nothing  against  either  of  them  any- 
way." 

Caesar  was  sitting  as  straight  as  a  crowbar  and  as  grim  as 
a  gannet.  "  And  when  he  left  me,  he  gave  me  imperence  and 
disrespect." 

"But  the  lad  meant  no  harm,  father,"  said  Grannie  ;  "and 
hadn't  you  told  him  to  take  to  the  road  ? " 

"  Let  every  bird  hatch  its  own  eggs,  mother  ;  it'll  become 
you  better,"  said  Caesar.  "Yes,  sir,  the  lip  of  Satan  and  the 
imperence  of  sin." 

"Pete  !"  cried  Philip,  in  a  tone  of  incredulity  ;  "why,  he 
hasn't  a  thought  about  you  that  isn't  out  of  the  Prayer-book." 

Caesar  snorted.  "  No  ?  Then  maybe  that's  vv^here  he's  go- 
ing for  his  curses." 

"No  curses  at  all,"  said  Nancy  Joe,  from  the  side  of  the 
table,  "but  a  right  good  lad  though,  and  you've  never  had 
another  that's  been  a  patch  on  him. " 

Caesar  screwed  round  to  her  and  said  severely,  "Where 
there's  geese  there's  dirt,  and  where  there's  women  there's 
talking."  Then  turning  back  to  Philip,  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
mock  deference,  "  And  may  I  presume,  sir — a  little  question — 
being  a  thing  like  that's  general  understood — what's  his  for- 
tune ? " 

Philip  fell  back  in  his  chair.  "  Fortune  ?  Well,  I  didn't 
think  that  you  now " 

"  No  ? "  said  Caesar.  "  We're  not  children  of  Israel  in  the 
wilderness  getting  manna  dropped  from  heaven  twice  a  day. 
If  it's  only  potatoes  and  herrings  itself,  we're  v/anting  it  three 
times,  you  see." 

Do  what  he  would  to  crush  it,  Philip  could  not  help  feeling 
a  sense  of  relief.  Fate  was  interfering  ;  the  girl  was  not  for 
Pete.  For  the  first  moment  since  he  returned  to  the  kitchen 
he  breathed  freely  and  fully.  But  then  came  the  prick  of  con- 
science :  he  had  come  to  plead  for  Pete,  and  he  must  be  loyal ; 
he  must  not  yield  ;  he  must  exhaust  all  his  resources  of  argu- 
ment and  persuasion.  The  wild  idea  occurred  to  him  to  take 
Caesar  by  force  of  the  Bible. 

"  But  think  what  the  old  book  says,  Mr.  Cregeen,  '  take  no 
thought  for  the  morrow ' " 

"That's  what  Johnny  Niplightly  said,  Mr.  Christian,  when 


46  THE   xMANXMAN. 

he  lit  my  kiln  overnight  and  burnt  my  oats  before  morn- 
ing." 

"  '  But  consider  the  lilies ' " 

"  I  have  considered  them,  sir  ;  but  I'm  foiling  still  and 
mother  has  to  spin." 

"  And  isn't  Pete  able  to  toil,  too,"  said  Philip  boldly.  "No- 
body better  in  the  island  ;  there's  not  a  lazy  bone  in  his  body, 
and  he'll  earn  his  living  anywhere." 

"  What  is  his  living,  sir  ?  "  said  Csesar. 

Philip  halted  for  an  answer,  and  then  said,  "Well,  he's 
only  with  me  in  the  boat  at  present,  Mr.  Cregeen." 

"  And  what's  he  getting  ?  His  meat  and  drink  and  a  bit  of 
pence,  eh  ?  And  you'll  be  selling  up  some  day,  it's  like,  and 
going  away  to  England  over,  and  then  where  is  he  ?  Let  the 
girl  marry  a  mother-naked  man  at  once." 

"  But  you're  wanting  help  yourself,  father,"  said  Grannie. 
"Yes,  you  are  though,  and  time  for  chapel  too  and  aisement 
in  3'our  old  days " 

"  Give  the  lad  my  mill  as  well  as  my  daughter,  is  that  it, 
eh  ? "  said  Caesar.  "  No,  I'm  not  such  a  goose  as  yonder,  either. 
I  could  get  heirs,  sir,  heirs,  bless  ye — fifty  acres  and  better,  not 
to  spake  of  the  bas'es.  But  I  can  do  v/ithout  them.  The  Lord's 
blest  me  with  enough.  I'm  not  for  daubing  grease  on  the  tail 
of  the  fat  pig." 

"  Just  so,  Csesar,"  said  Philip,  "  just  so  ;  you  can  afford  to 
take  a  poor  man  for  your  son-in-law,  and  there's  Pete " 

"  I'd  be  badly  in  want  of  a  bird,  though,  to  give  a  groat  for 
an  owl,''  said  Caesar. 

"  The  lad  means  well,  anyway,"  said  Grannie  ;  "  and  he 
was  that  good  to  his  mother,  poor  thing— it  was  wonderful." 

"  I  knew  the  woman,"  said  Caesar  ;  "  I  broke  a  sod  of  her 
grave  myself.  A  brand  plucked  from  the  burning,  but  not  a 
straight  walker  in  this  life.  And  what  is  the  lad  himself  ?  A 
monument  of  sin  without  a  name.  A  bastard,  what  else  ?  And 
that's  not  the  port  I'm  sailing  for.'' 

Down  to  this  point  Philip  had  been  torn  by  conflicting  feel- 
ings. He  was  no  match  for  Caesar  in  worldly  logic,  or  at  fenc- 
ing with  texts  of  Scripture.  The  devil  had  been  whispering  at 
his  ear,  "  Let  it  alone,  you'd  better."  But  his  time  had  come  at 
length  to  conquer  both  himself  and  Caesar.  Rising  to  his  feet 
at  Caesar's  last  word,  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  wrath,  "  What  ? 


BOYS   TOGETHER.  4Y 

You  call  yourself  a  Christian  man,  and  punisli  the  child  for 
the  sin  of  the  parent  !  No  name,  indeed  !  Let  me  tell  you, 
Mr.  Ceesar  Cregeen,  it's  possible  to  have  one  n^me  in  heaven 
that's  worse  than  none  at  all  on  earth,  and  that's  the  name  of 
a  hypocrite." 

So  saying'  lie  threw  back  his  chair,  and  was  making  for  the 
door,  when  Caesar  rose  and  said  softly, ''  Come  into  the  bar  and 
have  something.''  Then,  looking  back  at  Philip's  plate,  he 
forced  a  laugh,  and  said,  ''But  you've  turned  over  your  her- 
ring, sir— that's  bad  luck."  And,  putting  a  hand  on  Philip's 
shoulder,  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  No  disrespeck  to  you, 
sir  ;  and  no  harm  to  the  lad,  but  take  my  word  for  it,  Mr. 
Christian,  if  there's  an  amble  in  the  mare  it'll  be  in  the  colt." 

Philip  went  off  without  another  word.  The  moon  was  ris- 
ing and  whitening  as  he  stepped  froni  the  door.  Outside  the 
porch  a  figure  flitted  past  him  in  the  uncertain  shadows  with 
a  merry  trill  of  mischievous  laughter.  He  found  Pete  in  the 
road,  puffing  and  blowing  as  before,  but  from  a  different  cause. 

''  The  living  devil's  in  the  girl  for  sartin,"  said  Pete  ;  "  I 
can't  get  my  answer  out  of  her  either  way."  He  had  been 
chasing  her  for  his  answer,  and  she  had  escaped  him  through 
a  gate.     "  But  what  luck  with  the  ould  man,  Phil  ?  " 

Then  Phil  told  him  of  the  failure  of  his  mission — told  him 
plainly  and  fully  but  tenderly,  softening  the  hard  sayings  but 
revealiug  the  whole  truth.  As  he  did  so  he  was  conscious  that 
he  was  not  feeling  like  one  w^ho  brings  bad  news.  He  knew 
that  his  mouth  in  the  darkness  was  screwed  up  into  an  ugly 
smile,  and,  do  what  he  would^  he  could  not  make  it  straight 
and  sorrowful. 

The  happy  laughter  died  off  Pete's  lips,  and  he  listened  at 
first  in  silence,  and  afterwards  with  low  growls.  When  Phil 
showed  him  how  his  poverty  was  his  calamity  he  said,  ''Ay, 
ay,  I'm  only  a  wooden-spoon  man."  When  Phil  told  him  how 
Caesar  had  ripped  up  their  old  dead  quarrel  he  muttered,  "I'm 
on  the  ebby  tide,  Phil,  that's  it."  And  when  Phil  hinted  at 
what  Csesar  had  said  of  his  mother  and  of  the  impediment  of 
his  own  birth,  a  growl  came  up  from  the  Yerj  depths  of  him, 
and  he  scraped  the  stones  under  his  feet  and  said,  "  He  shall 
repent  it  yet  ;  yes,  shall  he." 

"Come,  don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart— it's  miserable  to 
bring  you  such  bad  news,"  said  Phil  ;  but  he  knew  the  sickly 


4S  THE   MANXMAN. 

smile  was  on  his  lips  still,  and  he  hated  liimself  for  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice. 

Pete  found  no  hollow  ring  in  it.  "  Grod  bless  you,  Phil," 
he  said  ;  "  you Ve  done  the  best  for  me,  I  know  that.  My 
pocket's  as  low  as  my  heart,  and  it  isn't  fair  to  the  girl,  or  I 
shouldn't  be  asking  the  ould  man's  lave  anj'way." 

He  stood  a  moment  in  silence,  crunching  the  wooden  laths 
of  the  garden  fence  like  matchwood  in  his  fingers,  and  then 
said,  with  sudden  resolution,  ''I  know  what  I'll  do." 

''What's  that  ?"  said  Philip. 

"  I'll  go  abroad  ;  I'D  go  to  Kimberley." 

"Never  1" 

"  Yes,  will  I  though,  and  quick  too.  You  heard  what  the 
men  were  saying  in  the  evening — there's  Manx  ones  going  by 
the  boat  in  the  morning  ?    Well,  I'll  go  with  them." 

"  And  you  talk  of  being  low  in  your  pocket,"  said  Phil. 
"Why,  it  will  take  all  you've  got,  man." 

"  And  more,  too,''  said  Pete,  "  but  you'll  lend  me  the  lave  of 
the  passage-money.  That's  getting  into  debt,  but  no  mattei\ 
When  a  man  falls  into  the  water  he  needn't  mind  the  rain. 
I'll  make  good  money  out  yonder." 

A  light  had  appeared  at  the  window  of  an  upper  room,  and 
Pete  shook  his  clenched  fist  at  it  and  cried,  "  Good-bye,  Master 
Cregeen.  I'll  put  worlds  between  us.  You  were  my  master 
once,  but  nobody  made  you  my  master  for  ever — neither  you 
nor  no  man." 

All  this  time  Philip  knew  that  hell  was  in  his  heart.  The 
hand  that  had  let  him  loose  when  his  anger  got  the  better  of 
him  with  Caesar  was  clutching  at  him  again.  Some  evil 
voice  at  his  ear  was  whispering,  "Let  him  go;  lend  him  the 
money." 

"Come  on,  Pete,"  he  faltered,  ''and  don't  talk  nonsense  !" 

But  Pete  heard  nothing.  He  had  taken  a  few  steps  for- 
ward, as  far  as  to  the  stable-yard,  and  was  watching  the  light 
in  the  house.  It  was  moving  from  window  to  window  of  the 
dark  wall.  "She's  taking  tlie  father's  candle,"  he  muttered. 
"  She's  there,"  he  said  softly.  "  No,  she  has  gone.  She's  com- 
ing back  though.''  He  lifted  the  stocking  cap  from  his  head 
and  fumbled  it  in  his  hands.  "  God  bless  her,"  he  murmured. 
He  sank  to  his  knees  on  the  ground.  "  And  take  care  of  her 
while  I'm  awav." 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  49 

The  moon  had  come  up  in  her  whiteness  behind,  and  all 
was  quiet  and  solemn  around.  Philip  fell  back  and  turned 
away  his  face. 

VIII. 

When  Caesar  came  in  after  seeing  Philip  to  the  door,  he 
said,  "  Not  a  word  of  this  to  the  girl.  You  that  are  women  are 
like  pigs — we've  got  to  pull  the  way  we  don't  want  you." 

On  that  Kate  herself  came  in,  blushing  a  good  deal,  and 
fussing  about  with  great  vigour.  "Are  you  talking  of  the 
piggies,  father  ?  "  she  said  artfully.  "  How  tiresome  they  are, 
to  be  sure  !  They  came  out  into  the  yard  when  the  moon  rose 
and  I  had  such  work  to  get  them  back." 

Caesar  snorted  a  little,  and  gave  the  signal  for  bed.  "  Fairies 
indeed  I "  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  vast  contempt,  going  to  the  cor- 
ner to  wind  the  clock.  "Just wakeness  of  faith,"  he  said  over 
the  clank  of  the  chain  as  the  weights  rose ;  "  and  no  trust  in 
God  neither,"  he  added,  and  then  the  clock  struck  ten. 

Grannie  had  lit  two  candles— one  for  herself  and  her  hus- 
band, the  other  for  Nancy  Joe.  Nancy  had  slyly  filled  three 
earthenware  crocks  with  water  from  the  v/ell,  and  had  set 
them  on  the  table,  mumbling  something  about  the  kettle  and 
the  morning.  And  Caesar  himself,  pretending  not  to  see  any- 
thing, and  muttering  dark  words  about  waste,  went  from  the 
clock  to  the  hearth,  and  raked  out  the  hot  ashes  to  a  flat  sur- 
face, on  which  you  might  have  laid  a  girdle  for  baking  cakes. 

"  Good-night,  Nancy,"  called  Grannie,  from  half-way  up 
the  stairs,  and  Caesar,  with  his  head  down,  followed  grumbling. 
Nancy  went  o£P  next,  and  then  Kate  was  left  alone.  She  had 
to  put  out  the  lamp  and  wait  for  her  father's  candle. 

When  the  lamp  was  gone  the  girl  was  in  the  dark,  save  for 
the  dim  light  of  the  smouldering  fire.  She  began  to  tremble 
and  to  laugh  in  a  whisper.  Her  eyes  danced  in  the  red  glow 
of  the  dying  turf.  She  slipped  ofi'  her  shoes  and  went  to  a 
closet  in  the  wall.  There  she  picked  an  apple  out  of  a  barrel, 
and  brought  it  to  the  fire  and  roasted  it.  Then,  down  on  her 
knees  before  the  hearth,  she  took  took  two  pinches  of  the  apple 
and  swallowed  them.  After  that  and  a  little  shudder  she  rose 
again,  and  turned  about  to  go  to  bed,  backwards,  slowly,  trem- 
blingly, with  measured  steps,  feeling  her  way  i3ast  the  furni- 


50  THE  MANXMAN. 

hire,  having  a  shock  when  she  touched  anything,  and  laugh- 
lug  to  herself,  nervous^lv,  when  she  remembered  what  it  was. 

At  the  door  of  her  fathers  room  and  Grannie's  she  called, 
with  a  quaver  in  her  voice,  and  a  sleepy  grunt  came  out  to  her. 
She  reached  one  liand  through  the  door,  which  was  ajar,  and 
took  the  burning  candle.  Then  she  blew  out  the  light  with  a 
trembling  puff,  that  had  to  be  twice  repeated,  and  made  for  her 
own  bcdi-ooQi,  still  going  backwards. 

It  was  a  sweet  little  chamber  over  the  dairy,  smelling  of 
new  milk  and  ripe  apples,  and  very  dainty  in  dimity  and 
muslin.  Two  tiny  windows  looked  out  from  it,  one  on  to  the 
stable-yard  and  the  other  on  to  the  orchard.  The  late  moon 
came  through  the  orchard  window,  over  the  heads  of  the  dwarf 
trees,  and  the  little  white  place  was  lit  up  from  the  floor  to  the 
sloping  thatch. 

Kate  went  backwards  as  far  as  to  the  bed,  and  sat  down  on 
it.  She  fancied  she  heard  a  step  in  the  yard,  but  the  yard 
window  was  at  her  back,  and  she  would  not  look  behind.  She 
listened,  but  heard  nothing  more  except  a  see-sawing  noise 
from  the  stable,  where  the  mare  w^as  running  her  rope  in  the 
manger  ring.  Nothing  but  this  and  the  cheep-cheep  of  a 
mouse  that  was  gnawing  the  wood  somewhere  in  the  floor. 

"Will  he  come  ? "  she  asked  herself. 

She  rose  and  loosened  her  gown,  and  as  it  fell  to  her  feet 
she  laughed. 

"  Which  will  it  be,  I  wonder — which  ? "  she  whispered. 

The  moonlight  had  crept  up  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  now 
lay  on  it  like  a  broad  blue  sword  speckled  as  with  rust  by  the 
patchwork  counterpane. 

She  freed  her  hair  from  its  red  ribbon,  and  it  fell  in  a 
shower  about  her  face.  All  around  her  seemed  hushed  and 
awful.  She  sliuddered  again,  and  with  a  backv/ard  hand  drew 
down  the  sheets.  Then  she  took  a  long,  deep  breath,  like  a 
sigh  that  is  half  a  smile,  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 


IX. 

Somewhere  towards  the  dawn,  in  the  vague  shadow-land 
between  a  dream  and  the  awakening,  Kate  thought  she  was 
startled  by  a  handful  of  rice  thrown  at  her  carriage  on  her 


BOYS   TOGETHER.  5I 

marriage  morning".  The  rattle  came  again,  and  then  she  knew 
it  was  from  gravel  dashed  at  her  bedroom  window.  As  she 
recognised  the  sound,  a  voice  came  as  through  a  cavern, 
crying,  "Kate!"  She  was  fully  awake  by  this  time. 
"Then  it's  to  be  Pete,"  she  thought.  "It's  hound  to  be 
Pete,  it's  like,"  she  told  herself.  "It's  himself  outside, 
anyway." 

It  was  Pete  indeed.  He  was  standing  in  the  thin  darkness 
under  the  window,  calling  the  girl's  name  out  of  the  back  of 
his  throat,  and  whistling  to  her  in  a  sort  of  w^hisper.  Pres- 
ently he  heard  a  movement  inside  the  room,  and  he  said  over 
his  shoulder,  "She's  coming." 

There  was  the  click  of  a  latch  and  the  slithering  of  a  sash, 
and  then  out  through  the  little  dark  frame  came  a  head  like  a 
picture,  with  a  face  all  laughter,  crowmed  by  a  cataract  of 
streaming  black  hair,  and  rounded  oflp  at  the  throat  by  a  shad- 
owy hint  of  the  white  frills  of  a  night-dress. 

"  Kate,"  said  Pete  again. 

She  pretended  to  have  come  to  the  window  merely  to  look 
out,  and,  like  a  true  woman,  she  made  a  little  start  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  and  a  little  cry  of  dismay  at  the  idea  that  he  was 
so  close  beneath  and  had  taken  her  unawares.  Then  she  peered 
down  into  the  gloom  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  wondrous  surprise, 
"It  must  be  Pete,  surely." 

"  And  so  it  is,  Kate,"  said  Pete,  "  and  he  couldn't  take  rest 
without  spaking  to  you  once  again." 

"  Ah ! "  she  said,  looking  back  and  covering  her  eyes,  and 
thinking  of  Black  Tom  and  the  fairies.  But  suddenly  the 
mischief  of  her  sex  came  dancing  into  her  blood,  and  she  could 
not  help  but  plague  the  lad.  "  Have  you  lost  your  way,  Pete  ? " 
she  asked,  with  an  air  of  innocence. 

"  Not  my  way,  but  myself,  woman,"  said  Pete. 

"  Lost  yourself  !  Have  the  lad's  wits  gone  moon-raking,  I 
wonder  ?  Are  you  witched  then,  Pete  ? "  she  inquired,  with 
vast  solemnity. 

"Aw,  witched  enough.     Kate " 

"  Poor  fellow  ! "  sighed  Kate.  "  Did  she  strike  you  unknown 
and  sudden  ? " 

"  Unknown  it  was,  Kirry,  and  sudden,  too.  Listen, 
though " 

"Aw  dear,  aw  dear  !     Was  it  old  Mrs.  Cowley  of  the  Cur- 


52  THE  MANXMAN. 

ragh  ?  Did  she  turn  into  a  hare  ?  Is  it  bitten  youVe  been, 
Pete?" 

"Aw,  yes,  bitten  enoug-h.     But,  Kate " 

"  Then  it  was  a  dog,  it's  like.  Is  it  flying  from  the  water 
you  are,  Pete  ? " 

"  No,  but  flying  to  the  water,  woman.     Kate,  I  say " 

"  Is  it  burning  they're  doing  for  it  ? " 

"  Burning  and  freezing  both.  Will  you  hear  me,  though  ? 
I'm  going  away — hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles  away." 

Then  from  the  window  came  a  tone  of  great  awe,  uttered 
with  face  turned  upward  as  if  to  the  last  remaining  star. 

''  Poor  boy !     Poor  boy !  it's  bitten  he  is,  for  sure." 

'•  Then  it's  yourself  that's  bitten  me.     Kirry " 

There  was  a  little  crow  of  gaiety.  "  Me  ?  Am  /  the  witch  ? 
You  called  me  a  fairy  in  the  road  this  evening." 

*'A  fairy  you  are,  girl,  and  a  witch  too;  but  listen, 
nov/ " 

"You  said  I  was  an  angel,  though,  at  the  cowhouse  gable; 
and  an  angel  doesn't  bite." 

Then  she  barked  like  a  dog,  and  laughed  a  shrill  laugh  like 
a  witch,  and  barked  again. 

But  Pete  could  bear  no  more.  "  Go  on,  then  ;  go  on  with 
your  capers !  Go  on  1 "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  reproach.  "  It's 
not  a  heart  that's  at  you  at  all,  girl,  but  only  a  stone.  You  see 
a  man  going  away  from  the  island " 

"  From  the  island  ? "  Kate  gasped. 

"  Middling  down  in  the  mouth,  too.  and  plagued  out  of  his 
life  between  the  ruck  of  you,"  continued  Pete;  "  but  God  for- 
give you  all,  you  can't  help  it." 

"  Did  you  say  you  wore  going  out  of  the  island,  Pete  ?  " 

"  Coorse  I  did ;  but  what's  the  odds  ?  Africa,  Kimberley, 
the  Lord  knows  where " 

"  Kimberley !    Not  Kimberley,  Pete ! " 

"  Kimberley  or  Timbuctoo,  what's  it  matter  to  the  like  of 
you  ?  A  man's  coming  up  in  the  morning  to  bid  you  good-bye 
before  an  early  sailing,  and  you're  thinking  of  nothing  but 
yoiu*  capers  and  divilmcnts." 

"  It's  you  to  know  what  a  girl's  thinking,  isn't  it,  ^Mr.  Pete? 
And  why  are  you  flying  in  my  face  for  a  word  ? " 

"  Flying  ?    I'm  not  flying.     It's  driven  I  am." 

"Driven,  Pete?" 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  53 

"  Driven  away  by  them  that's  thinking  I'm  not  fit  for  you. 
Well,  that's  true  enough,  but  they  shan't  be  telling  me  twice." 

"  They  ?     Who  are  they,  Pete  ? " 

"  What's  the  odds  ?  Flinging  my  mother  at  me,  too — poor 
little  mother!  And  putting  the  bastard  on  me,  it's  like.  A 
respectable  man's  girl  isn't  going  begging  that  she  need  marry 
a  lad  without  a  name." 

There  w^as  a  sudden  ejaculation  from  the  window-sash. 
'•  Who  dared  to  say  that  ?  " 

"No  matter." 

'"  Whoever  they  are,  you  can  tell  them,  if  it's  me  they  mean, 
that,  name  or  no  name,  when  I  want  to  marry  I'll  marry  the 
man  I  like." 

"  If  I  thought  that  now,  Kitty " 

"As  for  you,  Mr.  Pete,  that's  so  ready  with  your  cross 
words,  you  can  go  to  your  Kimberle}^  Yes,  go,  and  welcome ; 
and  what's  more — what's  more " 

But  the  voice  of  anger,  in  the  half  light  overhead,  broke 
down  suddenly  into  an  inarticulate  gurgle. 

"Why,  what's  this?"  said  Pete  in  a  flurry.  "You're  not 
crying  though,  Kate  ?  Whatever  am  I  saying  to  you,  Kitty, 
woman  ?  Here,  here — bash  me  on  the  head  for  a  blockhead 
and  an  omathaun." 

And  Pete  was  clambering  up  the  wall  by  the  side  of  the 
dairy  window. 

"  Get  down,  then,"  whispered  Kate. 

Her  wrath  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  Pete,  being  nearer 
to  her  now,  could  see  tears  of  laughter  dancing  in  her  eyes. 

''Get  down,  Pete,  or  I'll  shut  the  window,  I  will— yes,  I 
will."  And,  to  show  how  much  she  was  in  earnest  in  getting 
out  of  his  reach,  she  shut  up  the  higher  sash  and  opened  the 
lower  one. 

"  Darling  ! "  cried  Pete. 

"  Hush  !  What's  that  ? "  Kate  whispered,  and  drew  back 
on  her  knees. 

"  Is  the  door  of  the  pig-sty  open  again  ? "  said  Pete. 

Kate  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "  It's  only  somebody  snor- 
ing,'' she  said. 

"  The  ould  man,"  said  Pete.  "  That's  all  serene  !  A  good 
ould  sheepdog,  that  snaps  more  than  he  bites,  but  he's  best 
when  he's  sleeping— more  safer,  anyway." 


54  THE    MANXMAN. 

"  What's  the  good  of  going-  away,  Pete  ? "  said  Kate. 
"You'd  have  to  make  a  fortune  to  satisfy  father." 

"  Others  have  done  it.  Kitty — why  shouldn't  I  ?  Manx 
ones  too — silver  kings  and  diamond  kings,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what.  No  fear  of  me  I  When  I  come  back  it's  a  queen  you'll 
be,  woman—  my  queen,  anyway,  with  pigs  and  cattle  and  a 
girl  to  wash  and  do  for  you." 

'•  So  that's  how  you'd  bribe  a  poor  gh'l  is  it  ?  But  you'd 
have  to  turn  religious,  or  father  would  never  consent." 

'*  When  I  come  home  again,  Kitty.  I'll  be  that  religious  you 
never  seen.  I'll  be  just  rolling  in  it.  You'll  hear  me  spaking 
like  the  Book  of  Genesis  and  Abraham,  and  his  sons,  and  his 
cousins  ;  I'll  be  coming  up  at  night  making  love  to  you  at  the 
cowhouse  door  like  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles." 

"  Well,  that  will  be  some  sort  of  courting,  anyway.  But 
who  says  I'll  be  wanting  it  ?  Who  says  I'm  willing  for  you 
to  go  away  at  all  with  the  notion  that  I  must  be  bound  to 
many  you  when  you  come  back  ?  " 

"i  do,"  said  Pete  stoutly. 

"Oh,  indeed,  sir." 

'*  Listen.  I'll  be  working  like  a  nigger  out  yonder,  and 
making  my  pile,  and  banking  it  up,  and  never  seeing  nothing 
but  the  goold  and  the  girls '' 

•'My  goodness  I    What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Aw,  never  fear  I  I'm  a  one- woman  man,  Kate  :  but  lov- 
ing one  is  giving  me  eyes  for  all.  And  you'll  be  waiting  for 
me  constant,  and  never  giving  a  skute  of  your  little  eye  to 
them  drapers  and  druggists  from  Eamsey " 

"  Xot  one  of  them  i  Not  Jamesie  Corrin,  even — he's  a  nice 
boy.  is  Jamesie." 

"  That  dandy-divil  with  the  collar  ?  Hould  your  capers, 
woman  I " 

"Nor  young  Ballawhaine— Eoss  Christian,  you  know  ?" 

"  Ro.ss  Christian  be — well,  no  ;  but,  honour  bright,  you'll 
be  saying,  '  Peter's  coming;  I  must  be  thrue  I '  " 

"  So  I've  got  my  orders,  sir,  eli  ?  It's  all  settled  then,  is  it  ? 
Hadn't  you  better  fix  the  wedding-day  and  take  out  the  banns, 
now  that  your  hand  is  in  ?  I  have  got  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
seemingly.     Nobody  asks  me." 

"  Whist,  woman  1 ''  cried  Pete.     ''  Don't  you  hear  it  ?" 

A  cuckoo  was  passing  over  the  house  and  calling. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  55 

"  It's  over  the  thatch,  Kate.  '  Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo ! ' 
Three  times  !  Bravo  !  Three  times  is  a  good  Ameu.  Oiueu 
is  it  ?    Have  it  as  you  like,  love.'' 

The  stars  had  paled  out  by  this  time,  and  the  dawn  was 
coming  up  like  a  grey  vapour  from  the  sea. 

"  Ugh  !  the  air  feels  late  ;  I  must  be  going  in,"  said  Kate. 

"Only  a  bit  of  a  draught  from  the  mountains— it's  not 
morning  yet,"  said  Pete. 

A  bird  called  from  out  of  the  mist  somewhat  far  away. 

"  It  is,  though.  That's  the  throstle  up  the  glen,"  said 
Kate. 

Another  bird  answered  from  the  eaves  of  the  house. 

"  And  what's  that  ? "  said  Pete.  ''  V/as  it  yourself,  Kitty  ? 
How  straight  your  voice  is  like  the  throstle's  !  " 

She  hung  her  head  at  the  sweet  praise,  but  answered  tartly, 
"  How  people  will  be  talking  !  " 

A  dead  white  light  came  sweeping  over  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  the  trees  and  the  hedges,  all  quiet  until  then,  began 
to  shudder.  Kate  shuddered  too,  and  drew  the  frills  closer 
about  her  throat.     "  I'm  going,  Pete,"  she  whispered. 

"  Not  yet.  It's  only  a  taste  of  the  salt  from  the  sea,''  said 
Pete.     "  The  moon's  not  out  many  minutes." 

"Why,  you  goose,  it's  been  gone  these  two  hours.  This 
isn't  Jupiter,  where  it's  moonlight  always." 

"  Always  moonlight  in  Jubiter,  is  it  ? "  said  Pete.  "  My 
goodness  !     What  coorting  there  must  be  there  !  " 

A  cock  crowed  from  under  the  hen-roost,  the  dog  barked 
indoors,  and  the  mare  began  to  stamp  in  her  stall. 

"  When  do  you  sail,  Pete  ? " 

"First  tide — seven  o'clock." 

"  Time  to  be  off,  then.     Good-bye  !  " 

"  Hould  hard— a  word  first." 

"  Not  a  word.  I'm  going  back  to  bed.  See,  there's  the  sun 
coming  up  over  the  mountains." 

"  Only  a  touch  of  red  on  the  tip  of  ould  Cronky's  nose. 
Listen  !  Just  to  keep  them  dandy- divils  from  plaguing  you, 
I'll  tell  Phil  to  have  an  eye  on  you  while  I'm  away." 

"  Mr.  Christian  ? " 

"  Call  him  Philip,  Kate.  He's  as  free  as  free.  No  pride  at 
all.     Let  him  take  care  of  you  till  I  come  back." 

"  I'm  shutting  the  window,  Pete  ! " 


56  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  Wait  !  Something  else.  Bend  down  so  the  ould  man 
won't  hear." 

"  I  can't  reach — what  is  it  ?  " 

"Your  hand,  then  ;  I'll  tell  it  to  your  hand." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  dropped  her  hand  over 
the  window-sill,  and  he  clutched  at  it  and  kissed  it,  and  pushed 
back  the  white  sleeve  and  ran  up  the  arm  with  his  lips  as  far 
as  he  could  climb. 

"  Another,  my  girl  ;  take  your  time,  one  more — half  a  one, 
then." 

She  drew  her  arm  back  until  her  hand  got  up  to  his  hand, 
and  then  she  said,  "  What's  this  ?  The  mole  on  your  linger 
still,  Pete  ?  You  called  me  a  witch — now  see  me  charm  it 
away.     Listen  !— 

'  Ping,  ping,  prash, 
Cur  yn  cadley-jiargan  ass  my  chass.'  " 

She  was  uttering  the  Manx  charm  in  a  mock-solemn  uliila- 
tion  when  a  bough  snapped  in  the  orchai'd,  and  she  cried, 
''  What's  that  ?  " 

"  It's  Philip.    He's  waiting  under  the  apple-tree,"  said  Pete. 

"  My  goodness  me  ! "  said  Kate,  and  down  went  the  win- 
dow-sash. 

A  moment  later  it  rose  again,  and  there  was  the  beautiful 
young  face  in  its  frame  as  before,  but  with  the  rosy  light  of 
the  dawn  on  it. 

"  lias  he  been  there -all  the  while  ? "  she  whispered. 

"  What  matter  ?    It's  only  Phil. " 

"  Good-bye  !  Good  luck  I "  and  then  the  window  vrent 
down  for  good. 

"  Time  to  go,"  said  Philip,  still  in  his  tall  silk  hat  and  his 
knickerbockers.  He  had  been  standing  alone  among  the  dead 
brown  fern,  the  withering  gorse,  and  the  hanging  brambles, 
gripping  the  apple-tree  and  swallowing  the  cry  that  was  bub- 
bling up  to  his  throat,  but  forcing  himself  to  look  upon  Pete's 
hai)piness,  which  was  his  own  calamity,  though  it  was  tearing 
his  heart  out,  and  he  could  hardly  bear  it. 

The  birds  were  singing  by  this  time,  and  Pete,  going  back, 
sang  and  whistled  with  the  best  of  them. 


BOYS  TOGETHER.  57 


X. 


In  the  mists  of  morning,  Grannie  had  awakened  in  her 
bed  with  the  turfy  scraas  of  the  thatch  just  visible  above  her, 
and  the  window-blind  like  a  hazy  moon  floating  on  the  wall 
at  her  side.  And,  fij{:ing  her  nightcap,  she  had  sighed  and 
said,  "I  can't  close  my  eyes  for  dreaming  that  the  poor  lad 
has  come  to  his  end  untimeously." 

Caesar  yawned,  and  asked,  ''What  lad  ?  " 

"  Young  Pete,  of  course,"  said  Grannie. 

Caesar  umpht  and  grunted. 

''We  were  poor  ourselves  when  we  began,  father." 

Grannie  felt  the  glare  of  the  old  man's  eye  on  her  in  the 
darkness.  "  'Deed,  we  were  ;  but  people  forget  things.  We 
had  to  borrow  to  buy  our  big  overshot  w^heel ;  we  had,  though. 
And  when  ould  Parson  Harrison  sent  us  the  first  boll  of  oats, 
we  couldn't  grind  it  for  want  of " 

Caesar  tugged  at  the  counterpane  and  said,  "  Will  you  lie 
quiet,  woman,  and  let  a  hard-working  man  sleep  ?  " 

"Then  don't  be  the  young  man's  destruction,  Caesar." 

Caesar  made  a  contemptuous  snort,  and  pulled  the  bed- 
clothes about  his  head. 

"Aw,  'deed,  father,  but  the  girl  might  do  worse.  A  fine^ 
strapping  lad.  And,  dear  heart,  the  cheerful  face  at  him  ! 
It's  taking  joy  to  look  at — like  drawing  water  from  a  well  ! 
And  the  laugh  at  the  boy,  too— that  joyful,  it's  as  good  to 
hear  in  the  morning  as  six  pigs  at  a  lit " 

"  Then  marry  the  lad  yourself,  woman,  and  have  done  with 
it,"  cried  Caesar,  and,  so  saying,  he  kicked  out  his  leg,  turned 
over  to  the  wall,  and  began  to  snore  with  great  vigour. 


XI. 

The  tide  was  up  in  Ramsey  Harbour,  and  rolling  heavily 
on  the  shore  before  a  fresh  sea-breeze  with  a  cold  taste  of  the 
salt  in  it.  A  steamer  lying  by  the  quay  was  getting  up  steam ; 
trucks  were  running  on  her  gangways,  the  clanking  crane 
over  her  hold  was  working,  and  there  was  much  shouting  of 
name,  and  ordering  and  protesting,  and  general  tumult.     On 


58  THE   MANXMAN. 

the  after-deck  stood  the  emigrants  for  Kimberley,  the  Quarks 
from  Glen  Rushen,  and  some  of  the  young  Gills  from  Castle- 
town—stalwart  lads,  bearing  thenaselves  bravely  in  the  midst 
of  a  circle  of  their  friends,  who  talked  and  laughed  to  make 
them  forget  they  were  on  the  point  of  going. 

Pete  and  Phil  came  up  the  quay,  and  were  received  by  a 
shout  of  incredulity  from  Quayle,  the  harbour-master.  "  What, 
are  you  going,  too,  Mr.  Philip  ? "  Philip  answered  him  '•  No," 
and  passed  on  to  the  ship. 

Pete  was  still  in  his  stocking  cap  and  Wellington  boots, 
but  he  had  a  monkey-jacket  over  his  blue  guernsey.  Except 
for  a  parcel  in  a  red  print  handkerchief,  this  was  all  his  kit 
and  luggage.  He  felt  a  little  lost  amid  all  the  bustle,  and 
looked  helpless  and  unhappy.  The  busy  preparations  on  land 
and  shipboard  had  another  effect  on  Philip.  He  sniflPed  the 
breeze  off  the  bay  and  laughed,  and  said,  '"The  sea's  calling 
me,  Pete  ;  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  with  you." 

Pete  answered  with  a  watery  smile.  His  high  spirits  were 
failing  him  at  last.  Five  years  were  a  long  time  to  be  away, 
if  one  built  all  one's  hopes  on  coming  back.  So  many  things 
might  happen,  so  many  chances  might  befall.  Pete  had  no 
heart  for  laughter. 

Philip  had  small  mind  for  it,  either,  after  the  first  rush  of 
the  salt  in  his  blood  was  over.  He  felt  at  some  moments  as  if 
hell  itself  were  inside  of  him.  What  troubled  him  most  was 
that  he  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him,  be  sorry  that  Pete  was 
leaving  the  island.  Once  or  twice  since  they  left  Sulby  he 
had  been  startled  by  the  thought  that  he  hated  Pete.  He 
knew  that  his  lip  curled  down  hard  at  sight  of  Pete's  solemn 
face.  But  Pete  never  suspected  this,  and  the  innocent  tender- 
ness of  the  rough  fellow  was  every  moment  beating  it  down 
with  blows  that  cut  like  ice  and  burnt  like  fire. 

They  were  standing  by  the  forecastle  head,  and  talking 
above  the  loud  throbbing  of  the  funnel. 

"  Good-bye,  Phil  ;  you've  been  wonderful  good  to  me — bet- 
ter nor  anybody  in  the  world.  I've  not  been  much  of  a  chum 
for  the  like  of  you,  either— you  that's  college  bred  and  ought 
to  be  the  first  gentry  in  the  island  if  everybody  had  his  own. 
But  you  shan't  be  ashamed  for  me,  neither — no  you  shan't,  so 
help  me  God  !  I  won't  be  long  away,  Phil — maybe  five  years, 
maybe  less,  and  when  I  come  back  you'll  be  the  first  Manxman 


BOYS   TOGETHER.  59 

living.  No  ?  But  you  will,  though  ;  you  will,  I'm  telling 
you.     No  nonsense  at  all,  man.     Lave  it  to  me  to  know." 

Philip's  frosty  blue  eyes  began  to  melt. 

"  And  if  I  come  back  rich,  I'll  be  your  ould  friend  again  as 
much  as  a  common  man  may  ;  and  if  I  come  back  poor  and 
disappointed  and  done  for,  I'll  not  claim  you  to  disgrace  you  ; 
and  if  I  never  come  back  at  all,  I'll  be  saying  to  myself  in  my 
dark  hour  somewhere,  '  He'll  spake  up  for  you  at  home,  boy  ; 
heHl  not  forget  you.'  " 

Philip  could  hear  no  more  for  the  puffing  of  the  steam  and 
the  clanking  of  the  chains. 

"  Chut  !  the  talk  a  man  will  put  out  when  he's  thinking  of 
ould  times  gone  by  !  " 

The  first  bell  rang  on  the  bridge,  and  the  harbour-master 
shouted,  "  All  ashore,  there  ! " 

''Phil,  there's  one  turn  more  I'll  ask  of  you,  and,  if  it's  the 
last,  it's  the  biggest." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  There's  Kate,  you  know.  Keep  an  eye  on  the  girl  while 
I'm  away.  Take  a  slieu  round  now  and  then,  and  put  a  sight 
on  her.  She'll  not  give  a  skute  at  the  heirs  the  ould  man's 
telling  of  ;  but  them  young  drapers  and  druggists,  they'll 
plague  the  hfe  out  of  the  girl.  Bate  them  ofP,  Phil.  They're 
not  worth  a  fudge  with  their  fists.  But  don't  use  no  violence. 
Just  duck  the  dandy-divils  in  the  harbour — that'll  do." 

"No  harm  shall  come  to  her  while  you  are  away." 

"  Swear  to  it,  Phil.  Your  word's  your  bond,  I  know  that ; 
but  give  me  your  hand  and  swear  to  it— it'll  be  more  surer." 

Philip  gave  his  hand  and  his  oath,  and  then  tried  to  turn 
away,  for  he  knew  that  his  face  was  reddening. 

"Wait!  There's  another  while  your  hand's  in,  Phil. 
Swear  that  nothing  and  nobody  shall  ever  come  between  us 
two." 

"You  know  nothing  ever  will." 

"But  swear  to  it,  Phil.  There's  bad  tongues  going,  and 
it'll  make  me  more  aisier.  Whatever  they  do,  whatever  they 
say,  friends  and  brothers  to  the  last  ? " 

Philip  felt  a  buzzing  in  his  head,  and  he  was  so  dizzy  that  he 
could  hardly  stand,  but  he  took  the  second  oath  also.  Then 
the  bell  rang  again,  and  there  was  a  great  hubbub.  Gang- 
ways were  drawn  up,  ropes  were  let  go,  the  captain  called  to 
5 


60  THE    MANXMAN. 

the  shore  from  tlie  bridge,  and  the  blustering  harbour-master 
called  to  the  bridge  from  the  shoie. 

"  Go  and  stand  on  the  end  of  the  pier,  Phil— just  aback  of 
the  lighthouse — and  I'll  put  myself  at  the  stern.  I  want  a 
friend's  face  to  be  the  last  thing  I  see  when  I'm  going  away 
from  the  old  home." 

Philip  could  bear  no  more.  The  hate  in  his  heart  was 
mastered.     It  was  under  his  feet.     His  flushed  face  was  wet. 

The  throbbing  of  the  funnels  ceased,  and  all  that  could  be 
heard  was  the  running  of  the  tide  in  the  harbour  and  the 
wash  of  the  waves  on  the  shore.  Across  the  sea  the  sun  came 
up  boldly,  "  like  a  guest  exi)ected,"  and  down  its  dancing 
water-path  the  steamer  moved  away.  Over  the  land  old  Bar- 
rule  rose  up  like  a  sea  king  with  hoar-frost  on  his  forehead, 
and  the  smoke  began  to  lift  from  the  chimneys  of  the  town  at 
his  feet. 

"  Good-bye,  little  island,  good-bye  !  I'll  not  forget  you. 
I'm  getting  kicked  out  of  you,  but  you've  been  a  good  ould 
mother  to  me,  and,  God  help  me,  I'll  come  back  to  you  yet. 
So  long,  little  Mona,  s'long  ?  I'm  laving  you,  but  I'm  a 
Manxman  still." 

Pete  had  meant  to  take  off  his  stocking  cap  as  they  passed 
the  lighthouse,  and  to  dash  the  tears  from  his  eyes  like  a  man. 
But  all  that  Philip  could  see  from  the  end  of  the  pier  was  a 
figure  huddled  up  at  the  stern  on  a  coil  of  rope. 


PART   II. 
BOY  AND   GIRL. 


Auntie  Nan  had  grown  uneasy  because  Philip  was  not  yet 
started  in  life.  During  the  spell  of  his  partnership  with  Pete 
she  had  protested  and  he  had  coaxed,  she  had  scolded  and  he 
had  laughed.  But  when  Pete  was  gone  she  remembered  her 
old  device,  and  began  to  play  on  Philip  through  the  memory 
of  his  father. 

One  day  the  air  was  full  of  the  sea  freshness  of  a  beautiful 
Manx  November.  Philip  sniffed  it  from  the  porch  after 
breakfast  and  then  gathered  up  his  tackle  for  cod. 

"The  boat  again,  Philip?"  said  Auntie  Nan.  "Then 
promise  me  to  be  back  for  tea." 

Philip  gave  his  promise  and  kept  it.  Y7hen  he  returned 
after  his  day's  fishing  the  old  lady  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
little  blue  room  which  she  called  her  own.  The  sweet  place 
was  more  than  usually  dainty  and  comfortable  that  day.  A 
bright  fire  was  burning,  and  everything  seemed  to  be  arranged 
so  carefully  and  nattily.  The  table  was  laid  with  cups  and 
saucers,  the  kettle  was  singing  on  the  jockey -bar,  and  Auntie 
Nan  herself,  in  a  cap  of  black  lace  and  a  dress  of  russet  silk 
with  flounces,  was  fluttering  about  with  an  odour  of  lavender 
and  the  light  gaiety  of  a  bird. 

"  Why,  what's  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  said  Philip. 

And  the  sweet  old  thing  answered,  half  nervously,  half 
jokingly,  "  You  don't  know  ?  What  a  child  it  is,  to  be  sure  ! 
So  you  don't  remember  what  day  it  is  ? " 

"  What  day  ?  The  fifth  of  Nov— oh,  my  birthday  !  I  had 
clean  forgotten  it,  Auntie." 

"Yes,  and  you  are  one-and-tv»^enty  for  tea-time.  That's 
why  I  asked  you  to  be  home." 

(61) 


C2  THE   MANXMAX. 

She  pouret^  out  the  tea,  settled  herself  with  her  feet  on  the 
fender,  allowed  the  cat  to  establish  itself  on  her  skirt,  and 
then,  with  a  nervous  smile  and  a  slight  depression  of  the 
heart,  she  began  on  her  task. 

"  How  the  years  roll  on,  Philip  !  It's  twenty  years  since  I 
g-ave  you  my  first  birthday  present.  I  wasn't  here  when  you 
were  born,  dear.  Grandfather  had  forbidden  me.  Poor 
grandfather  !  But  how  I  longed  to  come  and  wash,  and  dress, 
and  nurse  my  boy's  boy,  and  call  myself  an  auntie  aloud  ! 
Oh,  dear  me,  the  day  I  first  saw  you  !  Shall  I  ever  forget  it  ? 
Grandfather  and  I  were  at  Cowley,  the  draper's,  when  a  beau- 
tiful young  person  stepped  in  with  a  baby.  A  little  too  gay, 
poor  thing,  and  that  was  how  I  knew  her." 

"  My  mother  ? " 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  grandfather  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  street.  I  grow  hot  to  this  day  when  I  remember,  but  she 
didn't  seem  afraid.  She  nodded  and  smiled  and  lifted  the 
muslin  veil  from  the  baby's  face,  and  said  'Who's  he  like. 
Miss  Christian  ? '  It  was  wonderful.  You  were  asleep,  and 
it  was  the  same  for  all  the  world  as  if  your  father  had  slept 
back  to  be  a  baby.  I  was  trembling  fit  to  drop  and  couldn't 
answer,  and  then  your  mother  saw  grandfather,  and  before  I 
could  stop  her  she  had  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He 
stood  with  his  bad  ear  towards  us,  and  his  sight  was  failing, 
too,  but  seeing  the  form  of  a  lady  beside  him,  he  swept  round, 
and  bowed  low,  and  smiled  and  raised  his  hat,  as  his  way  was 
with  all  women.  Then  your  mother  held  the  baby  up  and 
said  quite  gaily,  '  Is  it  one  of  the  Ballures  he  is,  Dempster,  or 
one  of  the  Ballawhaines  ? '  Dear  heart,  when  I  think  of  it  ! 
Grandfather  straightened  himself  up,  turned  about,  and  was 
out  on  the  street  in  an  instant." 

"  Poor  father  !  "  said  Philip. 

Auntie  Nan's  eyes  brightened. 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  of  your  first  birthday,  dearest. 
Grandfather  had  gone  then — poor  grandfather  ! — and  I  had 
knitted  you  a  little  soft  cap  of  white  wool,  with  a  tassel  and  a 
])ink  bow.  Your  mother's  father  was  living  still — Capt'n 
Billy,  as  they  called  him — and  when  I  put  the  cap  on  your 
little  head,  he  cried  out,  '  A  sailor  every  inch  of  him  ! '  And 
sure  enough,  though  I  had  never  thought  it,  a  sailor's  cap  it 
was.     And  Capt'n  Billy  put  you  on  his  knee,  and  looked  at 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  ^3 

you  sideways,  and  slapped  his  thigh,  and  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke  from  his  long  pipe  and  cried  again,  '  This  boy  is  for  a 
sailor,  I'm  telling  you.'  You  fell  asleep  in  the  old  man's 
arm.s,  and  I  carried  you  to  your  cot  upstairs.  Your  fatlier  fol- 
lowed me  into  the  bedi'oom,  and  your  mother  was  there 
already  dusting  the  big  shells  on  the  mantelpiece.  Poor 
Tom  !  I  see  him  yet.  He  dropped  his  long  white  hand  over 
the  cot-rail,  pushed  back  the  little  cap  and  the  yellow  curls 
from  your  forehead,  and  said  proudly,  'Ah,  no,  this  head 
wasn't  built  for  a  sailor  ! '  He  meant  no  harm,  but — Oh,  dear, 
Oh,  dear  !— your  mother  heard  him,  and  thought  he  was  be- 
littling her  and  hers.  'These  qualities  !'  she  cried,  and 
slashed  the  duster  and  flounced  out  of  the  room,  and  one  of 
the  shells  fell  with  a  clank  into  the  fender.  Your  father 
turned  his  face  to  the  window.  I  could  have  cried  for  shame 
that  he  should  be  ashamed  before  me.  But  looking  out  on 
the  sea — the  bay  was  very  loud  that  day,  I  remember — he  said 
in  his  deep  voice,  that  was  like  a  mellow  bell,  and  trembled 
ratherly,  '  It's  not  for  nothing,  Nannie,  that  the  child  has  the 
forehead  of  Napoleon.  Only  let  God  spare  him  and  he'll  be 
something  some  day,  when  his  father,  with  his  broken  heart 
and  his  broken  brain,  is  dead  and  gone,  and  the  daisies  cover 
him.'" 

Auntie  Nan  carried  her  point.  That  night  Philip  laid  up 
his  boat  for  the  winter,  and  next  morning  he  set  his  face  to- 
wards Ballawhaine  with  the  object  of  enlisting  Uncle  Peter's 
help  in  starting  upon  the  profession  of  the  law.  Auntie  Nan 
went  with  him.  She  had  urged  him  to  the  step  by  the  twofold 
plea  that  the  Ballawhaine  was  his  only  male  relative  of  ma- 
ture years,  and  that  he  had  lately  sent  his  own  son  Eoss  to 
study  for  the  bar  in  England. 

Both  were  nervous  and  uncertain  on  the  way  down  ; 
Auntie  Nan  talked  incessantly  from  under  her  poke-bonnet, 
thinking  to  keep  up  Philip's  courage.  But  when  they  came 
to  the  big  gate  and  looked  up  at  the  turrets  through  the  trees, 
her  memory  went  back  with  deep  tenderness  to  the  days  when 
the  house  had  been  her  home,  and  she  began  to  cry  in  silence. 
Philip  himself  was  not  unmoved.  This  had  been  the  birth- 
place and  birthright  of  his  father. 

The  English  footman,  in  buff  and  scarlet,  ushered  them 
into  the  drawing-room  with  the  formality  proper  to  strangers. 


^4  THE   MANXMAN. 

To  their  surprise  they  foinicl  Ross  there.  He  was  sitting  at  the 
piano  strumming  a  music-hall  ditty.  As  the  door  opened  he 
shulfled  to  his  feet,  shook  hands  distantly  with  Auntie  Nan, 
and  nodded  his  head  to  Philip. 

The  young  man  was  by  this  time  a  sapling  well  fed  from 
the  old  tree.  Taller  than  his  father  by  many  inches,  broader, 
heavier,  and  larger  in  all  ways,  w^ith  the  slow^  eyes  of  a  seal 
and  something  of  a  seal's  face  as  well.  But  with  his  father's 
sprawling  legs  and  his  father's  levity  and  irony  of  manner 
and  of  voice — a  Manxman  disguised  out  of  all  recognition  of 
race,  and  apeing  the  fashionable  follies  of  the  hour  in  Lon- 
don. 

Auntie  Nan  settled  her  umbrella,  smoothed  her  gloves  and 
her  white  front  hair,  and  inquired  meekly  if  he  was  well. 

''  Not  very  fit,"  he  drawled  ;  "  shouldn't  be  here  if  I  were. 
But  father  worried  my  life  out  until  I  came  back  to  recruit." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Auntie  Nan,  looking  simple  and  sympa- 
thetic, "  perhaps  you've  been  longing  for  home.  It  must  be  a 
great  trial  to  a  young  man  to  live  in  London  for  the  fii^t  time. 
That's  where  a  young  woman  has  the  advantage — she  needn't 
leave  home,  at  all  events.  Then  your  lodgings,  perhaps  thev 
are  not  in  the  best  part  either." 

'•  I  used  to  have  chambers  in  an  Inn  of  Court " 

Auntie  Nan  looked  concerned.  '*I  don't  think  I  should 
like  Philip  to  live  long  at  an  inn,"  she  said. 

"  But  now  I'm  in  rooms  in  the  Hay  market." 

Auntie  Nan  looked  relieved. 

"  That  must  be  better,"  she  said.  "  Noisy  in  the  mornings, 
perhaps,  but  your  evenings  will  be  quiet  for  study,  I  should 
think." 

''  Precisely,"  said  Ross,  wMth  a  snigger,  touching  the  piano 
again,  and  Philip,  sitting  near  the  door,  felt  the  palm  of  his 
hand  itch  for  the  whole  breadth  of  his  cousin's  cheek. 

Uncle  Peter  came  in  hurriedly,  with  short,  nervous  steps. 
His  hair  as  well  as  his  eyebrows  w'as  now  white,  his  eye  was 
hollow,  his  cheeks  were  thin,  his  mouth  was  restless,  and  he 
had  lost  some  of  his  upper  teeth,  he  coughed  frequently,  he 
was  shabbily  dressed,  and  had  the  look  of  a  dying  man. 

"Ah  :  it's  you,  Anne  !  and  Philip,  too.  Good  morning, 
Philip.  Give  the  piano  a  rest,  Ross — that's  a  good  lad.  Well, 
Miss  Christian,  well  ? " 


BOY   AND   GIKL. 


i^b 


"  Philip  came  of  age  yesterday,  Peter,"  said  Auntie  Nan  in 
a  timid  voice. 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  Ballawhaine,  "  then  Eoss  is  twenty 
next  month.  A  little  more  than  a  year  and  a  month  between 
them." 

He  scrutinised  the  old  lady's  face  for  a  moment  without 
speaking,  and  then  said,  "  Well  ? " 

"  He  would  like  to  go  to  London  to  study  for  the  bar,"  fal- 
tered Auntie  Nan. 

"  Why  not  the  church  at  home  ? " 

"  The  church  would  have  been  my  own  choice,  Peter,  but 
his  father " 

The  Ballawhaine  crossed  his  leg  over  his  knee.  "His 
father  was  always  a  man  of  a  high  stomach,  ma'am,"  he  said. 
Then  facing  towards  Philip,  '"  Your  idea  would  be  to  return  to 
the  island." 

"Yes,"  said  Philip. 

"  Practice  as  an  advocate,  and  push  your  way  to  insular 
preferment  ? " 

'•  My  father  seemed  to  wish  it,  sir,"  said  Philip. 

The  Ballawhaine  tui^ned  back  to  Auntie  Nan.  "  Well,  Miss 
Christian?" 

Auntie  Nan  fumbled  the  handle  of  her  umbrella  and  began 
— "  We  were  thinking,  Peter — you  see  we  know  so  little — now 
if  his  father  had  been  living " 

The  Ballawhaine  coughed,  scratched  with  his  nail  on  his 
cheek,  and  said,  "  You  wish  me  to  put  him  with  a  barrister  in 
chambers,  is  that  it  ? " 

With  a  nervous  smile  and  a  little  laugh  of  relief  Auntie 
Nan  signified  assent. 

"You  are  aware  that  a  step  like  that  costs  money.  How 
much  have  you  got  to  spend  on  it  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid,  Peter " 

"  You  thought  I  might  find  the  expenses,  eh  ? " 

"  It's  so  good  of  you  to  see  it  in  the  right  way,  Peter." 

The  Ballawhaine  made  a  wry  face.  "Listen,"  he  said 
dryly.  "Eoss  has  just  gone  to  study  for  the  English 
bar." 

"Yes,"  said  Auntie  Nan  eagerly,  "and  it  was  partly 
that " 

"  Indeed ! "  said  the  Ballawhaine,  raising  his  eyebrows.     "  I 


66  THE   MANXMAN. 

calculate  that  his  course  in  London  will  cost  me,  one  thing 
with  another,  more  than  a  thousand  pounds." 

Auntie  Nan  lifted  her  gloved  hands  in  amazement. 

"  That  sum  I  am  jjrepared  to  spend  in  order  that  my  son, 
as  an  English  barrister,  may  have  a  better  chance " 

"Do  you  know,  we  were  thinking  of  that  ourselves,  Pe- 
ter ? "  said  Auntie  Nan. 

"  A  better  chance,"  the  Ballawhaine  continued, ''  of  the  few 
places  open  in  the  island  than  if  he  were  brought  up  at  the 
Manx  bar  only,  which  would  cost  me  less  than  half  as  much." 

"  Oh !  but  the  money  will  come  back  to  you,  both  for  Ross 
and  Philip,"  said  Auntie  Nan. 

The  Ballawhaine  coughed  impatiently.  "You  don't  read 
me."  he  said  irritably.  "  These  places  are  few,  and  Manx  ad- 
vocates are  as  thick  as  flies  in  a  glue-pot.  For  every  office 
there  nmst  be  fifty  applicants,  but  training  counts  for  some- 
thing, and  influence  for  something,  and  famJly  for  some- 
thing." 

Auntie  Nan  began  to  be  penetrated  as  by  a  chill. 

''  These,"  said  the  Ballawhaine,  "  I  bring  to  bear  for  Ross, 
that  he  may  distance  all  competitors.  Do  you  read  me 
now  ?  " 

"  Read  you,  Peter?  "  said  Auntie  Nan. 

The  Ballawhaine  fixed  his  hollow  eye  upon  her,  and  said, 
"  What  do  you  ask  me  to  do  ?  You  come  here  and  ask  me  to 
provide,  prepare,  and  equip  a  rival  to  my  own  son." 

Auntie  Nan  had  grasped  his  meaning  at  last. 

"  But  gracious  me,  Peter,"  she  said,  "  Philip  is  your  own 
nephew,  your  own  brother's  son." 

The  Ballawhaine  rubbed  the  side  of  his  nose  with  his  lean 
forefinger,  and  said,  "  Near  is  my  shirt,  but  nearer  is  my 
skin." 

Auntie  Nan  fixed  her  timid  eyes  upon  him,  and  they  grew 
brave  in  their  gathering  indignation.  "His  father  is  dead, 
and  he  is  poor  and  friendless,"  she  said. 

"We'v^e  had  differences  on  that  subject  before,  mistress," 
he  answered. 

"  And  yet  you  begrudge  him  the  little  that  would  start 
him  in  life." 

"  My  own  has  earlier  claim,  ma'am." 

"Saving  your  presence,  sir,  let  mc  tell   you  that   every 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  67 

penny  of  the  money  you  are  spending  on  Ross  would  have 
been  Philip's  this  day  if  things  had  gone  different." 

The  Ballawhaine  bit  his  lip.  "  Must  I,  for  my  sins,  be 
compelled  to  put  an  end  to  this  interview  ?  " 

He  rose  to  g-o  to  the  door.     Philip  rose  also. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  said  Auntie  Nan.  "  Would  you  dare 
to  turn  me  out  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  Come,  Auntie,  what's  the  use  ?  "  said  Philip. 

The  Ballawhaine  was  drumming  on  the  edge  of  the  open 
door.  *'  You  are  right,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  a  woman's  hys- 
teria is  of  no  use." 

"  That  will  do,  sir,"  said  Philip  in  a  firm  voice. 

The  Ballawhaine  put  his  hand  familiarly  on  Philip's 
shoulder.  "Try  Bishop  Wilson's  theological  college,  my 
friend ;  its  cheap  and " 

"  Take  your  hand  from  him,  Peter  Christian,"  cried  Auntie 
Nan.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheeks  were  aflame,  her  little 
gloved  hands  were  clenched.  "  You  made  war  between  his 
father  and  your  father,  and  when  I  would  have  made  peace 
you  prevented  me.  Your  father  is  dead,  and  your  brother  is 
dead,  and  both  died  in  hate  that  might  have  died  in  love,  only 
for  the  lies  you  told  and  the  deceit  you  practised.  But  they 
have  gone  where  the  mask  falls  from  all  faces,  and  they  have 
met  before  this,  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  to  hand.  Yes,  and  they 
are  looking  down  on  you  now,  Peter  Christian,  and  they 
know  you  at  last  for  what  you  are  and  always  have  been— a 
deceiver  and  a  thief." 

By  an  involuntary  impulse  the  Ballawhaine  turned  his 
eyes  upward  to  the  ceiling  while  she  spoke,  as  if  he  had  ex- 
pected to  see  the  ghosts  of  his  father  and  his  brother  threaten- 
ing him. 

"Is  the  woman  mad  at  all?  "  he  cried;  and  the  timid  old 
lady,  lifted  out  of  herself  by  the  flame  of  her  anger,  blazed  at 
him  again  with  a  tongue  of  fire. 

"You  have  done  wrong,  Peter  Christian,  much  wrong; 
youVe  done  wrong  all  your  days,  and  whatever  your  motive, 
God  will  find  it  out,  and  on  that  secret  place  he  will  bring  your 
punishment.  If  it  was  only  greed,  you've  got  your  wages; 
but  no  good  will  they  bring  to  you,  for  another  will  spend 
them,  and  you  will  see  them  wasted  like  water  from  the 
ragged  rock.     And  if  it  was  hate  as  well,  you  will  live  till  it 


68  THE   MANXMAN. 

comes  back  on  your  own  head  like  burning  coal.  I  know  it,  I 
feel  it,''  she  cried,  sweeping  into  the  hall.  "  and  sorry  I  am  to 
say  it  before  your  own  son,  who  ought  to  honour  and  respect 
his  father,  but  can't;  no,  he  can't  and  never  will,  or  else  he 
has  a  heart  to  match  your  own  in  wickedness,  and  no  bowels 
of  compassion  at  him  either." 

"  Come,  Auntie,  come,"  said  Philip,  putting  his  arm  about 
the  old  lady's  waist.  But  she  swerved  round  again  to  where 
the  Ballawhaine  came  slinking  behind  him. 

"  Turn  me  out  of  the  house,  will  you?"  she  cried.  "The 
place  where  I  lived  fifteen  years,  and  as  mistress,  too,  until 
your  evil  deeds  made  you  master.  Many  a  good  cry  I've  had 
that  it's  only  a  woman  I  am,  and  can  do  nothing  on  my  own 
head.  But  I  would  rather  be  a  woman  that  hasn't  a  roof  to 
cover  her  than  a  man  that  can't  warm  to  his  own  flesh  and 
blood.  Don't  think  I  begrudge  you  your  house,  Peter  Chris- 
tian, though  it  was  my  old  home,  and  I  love  it,  for  all  I'm 
shown  no  I'espect  in  it.  I  would  have  you  to  know,  sir,  that 
it  isn't  our  houses  we  live  in  after  all,  but  our  hearts — our 
hearts,  Peter  Christian — do  you  hear  me  ? — our  hearts,  and 
yours  is  full  of  darkness  and  dirt — and  always  will  be,  always 
will  be." 

"Come,  come,  Auntie,  come,"  cried  Philip  again,  and  the 
sweet  old  thing,  too  gentle  to  hurt  a  fly,  turned  on  him  also 
w^ith  the  fury  of  a  wild-cat. 

"Go  along  yourself  with  your  'come'  and  'come'  and 
'come.'    Say  less  and  do  more." 

With  that  final  outburst  she  swept  down  the  steps  and 
along  the  pj\th,  leaving  Philip  three  paces  behind,  and  the 
Ballawhaine  with  a  terrified  look  under  the  stuffed  coi'morant 
in  the  fanlight  above  the  open  door. 

The  fiery  mood  lasted  her  half  way  home,  and  then  broke 
down  in  a  torrent  of  tears. 

"Oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  she  cried.  ''I've  been  too  hasty. 
After  all,  he  is  your  only  relative.  What  sliall  I  do  now  ? 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do  now  ?  " 

Philip  was  walking  steadily  half  a  step  behind,  and  he  had 
never  once  spoken  since  they  left  Ballawhaine. 

"Pack  my  bag  to-night,  Auntie,"  said  he  with  the  voice  of 
a  man  ;  "  I  shall  start  for  Douglas  by  the  coach  to-morrow 
morning." 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  59 

He  sought  out  the  best  known  of  the  Manx  advocates,  a 
college  friend  of  his  father's,  and  said  to  him,  "I've  sixty 
pounds  a  3'ear,  sir,  from  my  mother's  father,  and  my  aunt  has 
enough  of  her  own  to  live  on.  Can  I  afford  to  pay  your 
premium  ? " 

The  lawyer  looked  at  him  attentively  for  a  moment,  and 
answered,  "  No,  you  can't,"  and  Philip's  face  began  to  fall. 

"  But  I'll  take  you  the  five  years  for  nothing,  Mr.  Chris- 
tian," the  wise  man  added,  "  and  if  you  suit  me,  I'll  give  you 
w^ages  after  two." 


II. 

Philip  did  not  forget  the  task  wherewith  Pete  had  charged 
him.  It  is  a  familiar  duty  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  he  who  dis- 
charges it  is  known  by  a  familiar  name.  They  call  him  the 
Dooiney  i¥oZZa— literally,  the  "  man-praiser ; "  and  his  primary 
function  is  that  of  an  informal,  unmercenary,  purel}"  friendly 
and  philanthropic  matchmaker,  introduced  by  the  young  man 
to  persuade  the  parents  of  the  young  woman  that  he  is  a 
splendid  fellow,  with  substantial  possessions  or  magnificent 
prospects,  and  entirely  fit  to  marry  her.  But  he  has  a  second- 
ary function,  less  frequent,  though  scarcely  less  familiar  ;  and 
it  is  that  of  lover  by  proxy,  or  intended  husband  by  deputy, 
<with  duties  of  moral  guardianship  over  the  girl  w^iile  the  man 
himself  is  off  "at  the  herrings,"  or  away  "at  the  mackerel,"  or 
abroad  on  wider  voyages. 

This  second  task,  having  gone  through  the  first  with  dubi- 
ous success,  Philip  discharged  with  conscientious  zeal.  The 
effects  were  peculiar.  Their  earliest  manifestations  were,  as 
was  most  proper,  on  Philip  and  Kate  themselves.  Philip 
grew  to  be  grave  and  wondrous  solemn,  for  assuming  the  tone 
of  guardian  lifted  his  manners  above  all  levity.  Kate  became 
suddenly  very  quiet  and  meek,  very  watchful  and  modest,  soft 
of  voice  and  most  apt  to  blush.  The  girl  who  had  hectored  it 
over  Pete  and  played  little  mistress  over  everybody  else,  grew 
to  be  like  a  dove  under  the  eye  of  Philip.  A  kind  of  awe  fell 
on  her  whenever  he  was  near.  She  found  it  sweet  to  listen  to 
his  words  of  wisdom  when  he  discoursed,  and  sweeter  still  to 
obey  his  will  when  he  gave  commands.  The  little  wdstful 
head  was  always  turning  in  his  direction  ;  his  voice  was  like 


70  THE   MANXMAX. 

joT-bells  in  her  ears  ;  his  parting  bow  under  his  lifted  hat  re- 
mained with  her  as  a  dream  until  the  following  day.  She 
hardly  knew  what  great  change  had  been  wrought  in  her,  and 
her  people  at  home  were  puzzled. 

''  Is  it  not  very  well  you  are,  Kirry,  woman  ? "  said  Gran- 
nie. 

"  Well  enough,  mother  ;  why  not  ? "  said  Kate. 

"  Is  it  the  toothache  that's  plaguing  you  ?  " 

"No." 

''  Then  maybe  it's  the  new  hat  in  the  window  at  Miss  Clu- 
cas's  ? " 

"Hould  your  tongue,  woman,"  whispered  Caesar  behind 
the  back  of  his  hand.  '"  It's  the  Spirit  that's  working  on  the 
girl.     Give  it  lave,  mother  ;  give  it  lave." 

''  Give  it  fiddlesticks,"  said  Nancj'-  Joe.  "  Give  it  brimstone 
and  treacle  and  a  cupful  of  wormwood  and  camomile." 

When  Philip  and  Kate  were  together,  their  talk  was  all  of 
Pete.  It  was  "  Pete  likes  this,"  and  "  Pete  hates  that,"  and 
"  Pete  always  says  so  and  so."  That  was  their  way  of  keeping 
up  the  recollection  of  Pete's  existence  ;  and  the  uses  they  put 
poor  Pete  to.  were  many  and  peculiar. 

One  night  "  The  Manx  Fairy  "  was  merry  and  noisy  with  a 
''  Scaltha,"  a  Christmas  supper  given  by  the  captain  of  a  fish- 
ing-boat to  the  ci'cw  that  he  meant  to  engage  for  the  season. 
Wives,  sweethearts,  and  friends  were  there,  and  the  customs 
and  superstitions  of  the  hour  were  honoured. 

"  Isn't  it  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world,  Philip  ? "  giggled 
Kate  from  the  back  of  the  door,  and  a  moment  afterwards  she 
was  standing  alone  with  him  in  the  lobby,  looking  demurely 
down  at  his  boots. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  apologise." 

''Why  so?" 

"  For  calling  you  that." 

•'  Pete  calls  me  Philip.     Why  shouldn't  you  ? " 

The  furtive  eyes  rose  to  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat. 
"  Well,  no  ;  there  can't  be  much  harm  in  calling  you  what 
Pete  calls  you,  can  there  ?    But  then " 

'•Well?" 

''He  calls  me  Kate." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  like  me  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  he  would." 


BOy  AND   GIRL.  ^i 

"  Shall  we,  then  ? " 

"  I  wonder  !  " 

"  Just  for  Pete's  sake  ?  " 

"Just." 

''  Kate  !  " 

"  Philip  ! " 

They  didn't  know  what  they  felt.  It  was  something  ex- 
quisite, something  delicious  ;  so  sweet,  so  tender,  they  could 
only  laugh  as  if  some  one  had  tickled  them. 

"  Of  course,  we  need  not  do  it  except  when  we  are  quite  by 
ourselves,"  said  Kate. 

''Oh  no,  of  course  not,  only  when  we  are  quite  alone," 
said  Philip. 

Thus  they  threw  dust  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  walked 
hand  in  hand  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 

The  last  day  of  the  old  year  after  Pete's  departure  found 
Philip  attending  to  his  duty. 

"  Are  you  going  to  put  the  new  year  in  anywhere,  Philip  ?  " 
said  Kate,  from  the  door  of  the  porch. 

"  I  should  be  the  first-foot  here,  only  I'm  no  use  as  a  qual- 
tagh,"  said  Philip. 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  a  fair  man,  and  would  bring  you  no  luck,  you  know." 

"Ah  !" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Kate  cried  "  / 
know." 

"Yes?" 

"  Come  for  Pete — he's  dark  enough,  anyway." 

Philip  was  much  impressed.  "  That's  a  good  idea,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  Being  qualtagh  for  Pete  is  a  good  idea.  His  first 
New  Year  from  home,  too,  poor  fellow  I " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Kate. 

"Shall  I,  then?" 

"  I'll  expect  you  at  the  very  stroke  of  twelve." 

Philip  was  going  off.     "  And,  Philip  !  " 

"  Yes  ? " 

Then  a  low  voice,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  merry,  came  from 
the  doorway  into  the  dark,  "  I'll  be  standing  at  the  door  of 
the  dairy. " 

Philip  began  to  feel  alarm,  and  resolved  to  take  for  the 
future  a  lighter  view  of  his  duties.     He  would  visit  "  The 


72  THE    MANXMAN. 

Manx  Fairy  "  less  frequently.  As  soon  as  the  Christmas  lioli- 
days  were  over  he  would  devote  himself  to  his  studies,  and 
come  back  to  Sulby  no  more  for  half  a  year.  But  the  Manx 
Christmas  is  long.  It  begins  on  the  24th  of  December,  and 
only  ends  for  good  on  the  Gth  of  January.  In  the  country 
places,  which  still  preserve  the  old  traditions,  the  culminating 
day  is  Twelfth  Day.  It  is  then  that  they  ''  cut  oflp  the  fiddler'^s 
head,''  and  play  valentines,  which  they  call  the  "  Goggans.' 
The  girls  set  a  row  of  mugs  on  the  hearth  in  front  of  the  fire, 
put  something  into  each  of  them  as  a  symbol  of  a  trade,  and 
troop  out  to  the  stairs.  Then  the  boys  change  the  order  of 
the  mugs,  and  the  girls  come  back  blindfold,  one  by  one,  to 
select  their  goggans.  According  to  the  goggans  they  lay 
hands  on,  so  will  be  the  trades  of  their  husbands. 

At  this  game,  played  at  "  The  Manx  Fairy "  on  the  last 
night  of  Philip's  holiday,  Caesar  being  abroad  on  an  evange- 
lising errand,  Kate  was  expected  to  draw  water,  but  she  drew 
a  quill. 

"  A  x^en  !  A  pen  !  "  cried  the  boys.  "'  Who  says  the  girl 
is  to  marry  a  sailor  ?  The  ship  isn't  built  that's  to  drown  her 
husband.'' 

''  Good-night  all,"  said  Philip. 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Christian,  good-nigbt,  sir,"  said  the  boys. 

Kate  slipped  after  him  to  the  door.  "  Going  so  early, 
Philip?" 

'•I've  to  be  back  at  Douglas  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Philip. 

"•  I  suppose  we  shan't  see  you  very  soon  ?  " 

''  No,  I  must  set  to  work  in  earnest  now." 

"  A  fortnight — a  month  may  be  ?  " 

''  Yes,  and  six  months — I  intend  to  do  nothing  else  for  half 
a  year." 

"  That's  a  long  time,  isn't  it,  Philip  ? " 

''  Not  so  long  as  IVe  wasted." 

"  Wasted  ?  So  you  call  it  wasted  ?  Of  course,  it's  nothing 
to  me — but  there's  your  aunt '' 

"A  man  can't  always  be  dangling- about  women,''  said 
Philip. 

Kate  began  to  laugh. 

''  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

*'  I'm  so  glad  I'm  a  girl,"  said  Kate. 


BOY   AND   GTRL.  73 

"  Well,  so  am  I,"  said  Philip. 

"  Are  you  ?  " 

It  came  at  his  face  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  Philip 
stammered,  "  I  mean— that  is — you  know — what  about  Pete  ?  " 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Well,  good-night,  if  you  must  go. 
Shall  I  bring  you  the  lantern  ?  No  need  ?  Starlight,  is  it  ? 
You  can  see  your  way  to  the  gate  quite  plainly  ?  Very  well, 
if  you  don't  want  showing.     Good-night  ! " 

The  last  words,  in  an  injured  tone,  were  half  lost  behind 
the  closing  door. 

But  the  heart  of  a  girl  is  a  dark  forest,  and  Kate  had  deter- 
mined that,  work  or  no  work,  so  long  a  spell  as  six  months 
Philip  should  not  be  away. 


III. 

One  morning  in  the  late  spring  there  came  to  Douglas  a 
startling  and  most  appalling  piece  of  news— Eoss  Christian 
was  constantly  seen  at  "The  Manx  Fairy."  On  the  evening 
of  that  day  Philip  reappeared  at  Sulby.  He  had  come  down 
in  high  wrath,  inventing  righteous  speeches  by  the  way  on 
plighted  troths  and  broken  pledges.  Eoss  was  there  in  lac- 
quered boots,  light  kid  gloves,  frock  coat,  and  pepper  and  salt 
trousers,  leaning  with  elbow  on  the  counter,  that  he  might 
talk  to  Kate,  who  was  serving.  Philip  had  never  before  seen 
her  at  that  task,  and  his  indignation  was  extreme.  He  was 
more  than  ever  sure  that  Grannie  was  a  simpleton  and  Caesar 
a  brazen  hypocrite. 

Kate  nodded  gaily  to  him  as  he  entered,  and  then  con- 
tinued her  conversation  with  Eoss.  There  was  a  look  in  her 
eyes  that  was  new  to  him,  and  it  caused  him  to  change  his 
purpose.  He  would  not  be  indignant,  he  would  be  cynical, 
he  would  be  nasty,  he  would  wait  his  opportunity  and  put  in 
with  some  cutting  remark.  So,  at  Caesar's  invitation  and 
Grannie's  welcome,  he  pushed  through  the  bar-room  to  the 
kitchen,  exchanged  salutations,  and  then  sat  down  to  watch 
and  to  listen. 

The  conversation  beyond  the  glass  partition  was  eager  and 
enthusiastic.     Eoss  was  fluent  and  Kate  was  vivacious. 

"  My  friend  Monty  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  who  is  Monty  ? " 


74  THE   MAXXMAX. 

"  He's  the  centre  of  the  Fancy." 

'*  The  Fancy  I  " 

"  Ornaments  of  the  Ring,  you  know.  Come  now,  surely 
you  know  the  Ring,  my  dear.  His  rooms  in  St.  James's  Street 
ai'e  full  of  them  every  night.  All  sorts,  j^ou  know — feather- 
weights, and  hea\\v-weights,  and  greyhounds.  And  the  faces ! 
My  goodness,  you  should  see  them.  Such  woin-out  old  images. 
Knowledge  boxes  all  awry,  mouths  crooked,  and  noses  that  have 
had  the  upper-cut.  But  good  men  all ;  good  to  take  their  gruel, 
you  know.  Monty  will  have  nothing  else  about  him.  He  was 
Tom  Spring's  backer.  Never  heard  of  Tom  Spring?  Tom  of 
Bedford,  the  incorruptible,  you  know,  onl}'  he  fought  cross 
that  day.  Monty  lost  a  thousand,  and  Tom  keeps  a  public  in 
Holborn  now  with  pictures  of  the  Fancy  round  the  walls." 

Then  Kate,  with  a  laugh,  said  something  which  Philip  did 
not  catch,  because  Cassar  was  rustling  the  newspaper  he  was 
reading. 

"  Ladies  come  ? "  said  Ross.  ''  Girls  at  Monty's  suppers  ? 
Rather  !  what  should  you  think  ?  Cleopatra— but  you  ought 
to  be  there.  I  must  be  getting  oil  myself  very  soon.  There's 
a  supper  coming  off  next  week  at  Handsome  Honey's.  Who's 
Honey  ?  Proprietor  of  a  night-house  in  the  Haymarket.  Night- 
house  ?    You  come  and  see,  my  dear." 

Cassar  dropped  the  newspaper  and  looked  across  at  Philip. 
The  gaze  was  long  and  embarrassing,  and,  for  want  of  better 
conversation,  Philip  asked  Cassar  if  he  was  thinking. 

"Aw,  thinking,  thinking,  and  thinking  again,  sir,"  said 
Caesar.  Then,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  Philip's,  he  added, 
in  a  half  whisper,  '*  I'm  getting  a  bit  of  a  skute  into  something, 
though.  See  yonder  ?  They're  calling  his  father  a  miser.  The 
man's  racking  his  tenants  and  starving  his  land.  But  I  believe 
enough  the  young  brass  lagh  (a  weed)  is  choking  the  ould 
grain.'' 

Caesar,  as  he  spoke,  tipped  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in 
the  direction  of  Ross,  and,  seeing  this,  Ross  interrupted  his 
conversation  mth  Kate  to  address  himself  to  her  father. 

"  So  you've  been  reading  the  paper,  Mr.  Cregeen  ? " 

"  Aw,  reading  and  reading,"  said  Caesar  grumpily.  Then 
in  another  tone,  "  You're  home  again  from  London,  sir  ? 
Great  doings  yonder,  they're  telling  me.  Battles,  sir,  great 
battles." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  75 

Boss  elevated  his  eyebrows.  "  Have  you  heard  of  theni 
then  ? "  he  asked. 

"Aw,  heard  enough,"  said  Caesar,  "  meetings,  and  confer- 
ences, and  conventions,  and  I  don't  know  what." 

"  Oh,  oh,  I  see,"  said  Ross,  with  a  look  at  Kate. 

"  They're  doing  without  hell  in  England  now-a-days — that's 
a  quare  thing,  sir.  Conditional  immorality  they're  calling  it 
— the  singlerest  thing  I  know.  Taking  hell  away  drops  the 
tailboard  out  of  a  man's  religion,  eh  ? " 

The  time  for  closing  came,  and  Philij)  had  waited  in 
vain.  Only  one  cut  had  come  his  way,  and  that  had  not 
been  his  own.  As  he  rose  to  go,  Kate  had  said,  "We 
didn't  expect  to  see  you  again  for  six  months,  Mr.  Chris- 
tian." 

'"So  it  seems,"  said  Philip,  and  Kate  laughed  a  little,  and 
that  was  all  the  work  of  his  evening,  and  the  whole  result  of 
his  errand. 

Cassar  w^as  w^aiting  for  him  in  the  porch.  His  face  was 
white,  and  it  twitched  visibly.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  tlie 
natural  man  was  fighting  in  Csesar.  "  Mr.  Christian,  sir," 
said  he,  "  are  you  the  gentleman  that  came  here  to  speak  to 
me  for  Peter  Quilliam  ? " 

"  I  am,"  said  Philip. 

"  Then  do  you  remember  the  ould  Manx  saying,  '  Perhaps 
the  last  dog  may  be  catching  the  hare  ? ' " 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  Mr.  Cregeen,"  said  Philip  through  his 
teeth. 

Half  a  minute  afterwards  he  was  swinging  dow^n  the  dark 
road  homewards,  by  the  side  of  Ross,  who  was  drawling  along 
with  his  cold  voice. 

"  So  you've  started  on  your  light-weight  handicap,  Philip. 
Father  was  monstrous  unreasonable  that  day.  Seemed  to 
think  I  was  coming  back  here  to  put  my  shoulder  out  for  your 
high  bailifiPships  and  bum-bailiffships  and  heaven  knows 
what.  You're  welcome  to  the  lot  for  me,  Philip.  That  girl's 
wonderful,  though.  It's  positively  miraculous,  too  ;  she's  the 
living  picture  of  a  girl  of  my  friend  Montague's.  Eyes,  hair, 
that  nervous  movement  of  the  mouth— everything.  Old  man 
looked  glum  enough,  though.  Poor  little  woman.  I  suppose 
she's  past  praying  for.  The  old  hypocrite  will  hold  her  like  a 
dove  in  the  claws  of  a  buzzard  hawk  till  she  throws  herself 
6 


76  '  THE   MANXMAN. 

away  on  some  Manx  omathaun.  It's  tlie  way  with  half  these 
pretty  creatures — they're  w^asted." 

Philip's  blood  was  boiling-,  "  Do  you  call  it  being*  wasted 
Tvhen  a  good  girl  is  married  to  an  honest  man  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  ;  because  a  girl  like  tliis  can  never  marry  the  right 
man.  The  man  who  is  worthy  of  her  cannot  marry  her,  and 
the  man  who  marries  her  isn't  worthy  of  her.  It's  like  this, 
Philip.  She's  young,  she's  pretty,  perhaps  beautiful,  has  man- 
ners and  taste,  and  some  refinement.  The  man  of  her  own 
class  is  clumsy  and  ignorant,  and  stupid  and  poor.  She 
doesn't  want  him,  and  the  man  she  does  want  -the  man  she's 
fit  for — daren't  marry  her  ;  it  would  be  social  suicide." 

"  And  so,"  said  Philip  bitterly,  "  to  save  the  man  above 
from  social  suicide,  the  girl  beneath  must  choose  moral  death 
—is  that  it  ?  " 

Eoss  laughed.  ''  Do  you  know  I  thought  old  Jeremiah 
was  at  you  in  the  corner  there,  Philip.  But  look  at  it  straight. 
Here's  a  girl  like  that.  Two  things  are  open  to  her— two  only. 
Say  she  marries  your  Manx  fellow,  what  follows  ?  A  thatched 
cottage  three  fields  back  from  the  mountain  road,  two  rooms, 
a  cowhouse,  a  crock,  a  dresser,  a  press,  a  form,  a  three-legged 
stool,  an  armchair,  and  a  clock  with  a  dirty  face,  hanging  on 
a  nail  in  the  wall.  Milking,  weeding,  digging,  ninepence  a 
day,  and  a  can  of  buttermilk,  with  a  lump  of  butter  thrown 
in.  Potatoes,  herrings,  and  barley  bonnag.  Year  one,  a 
baby,  a  boy  ;  year  two,  another  baby,  a  girl  ;  year  three, 
twins  ;  year  four,  barefooted  children  squalling,  dirty  house, 
man  grumbling,  woman  distracted,  measles,  hooping-cough  ; 
a  joume.y  at  the  tail  of  a  cart  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  and 
the  awful  words  '  I  am  the '  " 

"  Hush  man  ! "  said  Philip.  They  were  passing  Lezayre 
churchyard.  When  they  had  left  it  behind,  he  added,  with  a 
grim  curl  of  the  lip,  w^hich  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  "  Well, 
that's  one  side.     What's  the  other  ?  " 

"  Life,"  said  Ross.  "  Short  and  sweet,  perhaps.  Every- 
thing she  wants,  everything  she  can  wish  for — five  years,  four 
years,  three  years — what  matter  ?  " 

"  And  then  ? " 

"  Every  one  for  himself  and  God  for  us  all,  my  boy.  She's 
as  happy  as  the  day  while  it  lasts,  lifts  her  head  like  a  rose- 
bud in  the  sun " 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  77 

"Then  drojDS  it,  I  suppose,  like  a  rose-leaf  in  the  mud." 
Ross  laughed  again.     ''  Yes,  it's  a  fact,  old  Jeremiah  has 

been  at  you,  Philip.     Poor  little  Kitty " 

"  Keep  the  girl's  name  out  of  it,  if  you  please." 

Ross  gave  a  long  whistle.     "  I  was  only  saying  the  poor 

little  woman " 

"  It's  damnable,  and  I'll  have  no  more  of  it." 

"  There's  no  duty  on  speech,  I  hope,  in  your  precious  Isle 

of  Man." 

"  There  is,  though,"  said  Philip,  "  a  duty  of  decency  and 

honour,  and  to  name  that  girl,  foolish  as  she  is,  in  the  same 

breath   with   your   women — But   here,   listen   to   me.      Best 

tell  yon  now,  so  there  may  be  no  mistake  and  no  excuse. 

Miss  Cregeen  is  to  be  married  to  a  friend  of  mine.     I  needn't 

say  who  he  is — he  comes  close  enough  to  you  at  all  events. 

When  he's  at  home,  he's  able  to  take  care  of  his  own  affairs  ; 

but  w^hile  he's  abroad  I've  got  to  see  that  no  harm  comes  to 

his  promised  wife.     I  mean  to  do  it,  too.     Do  you  understand 

me,  Ross  ?    I  mean  to  do  it.     Good  night !  " 

They  were  at  the  gate  of  Ballawhaine  by  this  time,  and 

Ross  went  through  it  giggling. 


IV. 

The  following  evening  found  Philip  at  "  The  Manx  Fairy  " 
again.  Ross  was  there  as  usual,  and  he  was  laughing  and 
talking  in  a  low  tone  with  Kate.  This  made  Philip  squirm  on 
his  chair,  but  Kate's  behaviour  tortured  him.  Her  enjoj^ment 
of  the  main's  jests  was  almost  uproarious.  She  was  signalling 
to  him  and  peering  up  at  him  gaily.  Her  conduct  disgusted 
Philip.  It  seemed  to  him  an  aggravation  of  her  offence  that 
as  often  as  he  caught  the  look  of  her  face  there  was  a  roguish 
twinkle  in  the  eye  on  his  side,  and  a  deliberate  cast  in  his 
direction.  This  open  disregard  of  the  sanctity  of  a  pledged 
word,  this  barefaced  indifference  to  the  presence  of  him  who 
stood  to  represent  it,  was  positively  indecent.  This  was  what 
women  were  !    Deceit  was  bred  in  their  bones. 

It  added  to  Philip's  gathering  wrath  that  Caesar,  who  sat 
in  shirt-sleeves  making  up  his  milling  accounts  from  slates 
ciphered  wdth  crosses,   and   triangles,  and  circles,  and   half 


78  THE   MANXMAN. 

circles,  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  to  look  first  at 
them  and  then  at  him,  with  an  expression  of  contempt. 

At  a  burst  of  fresh  laughter  and  a  shot  of  the  bright  eyes, 
Philip  st:rrged  up  to  his  feet,  thrust  himself  between  Ross  and 
Kate,  turned  his  back  on  him  and  his  face  to  her,  and  said  in 
a  peremptory  voice,  "  Come  into  the  parlour  instantly — I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

*'  Oh,  indeed !  "  said  Kate. 

But  she  came,  looking  mischievous  and  yet  demure,  with 
her  head  down  but  her  eyes  peering  under  their  long  upper 
lashes. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  this  fellow  about  his  business  ? " 
said  Philip. 

Kate  looked  up  in  blank  surprise.  "  What  fellow  ? "  she 
said. 

"  What  fellow  ? "  said  Philip,  "  why,  this  one  that  is  shilly- 
shallying with  you  night  after  night." 

"  You  can  never  mean  your  own  cousin,  Philip  ? "  said 
Kate. 

"  More's  the  pity  if  he  is  my  cousin,  but  he's  no  fit  company 
for  you." 

"I'm  sure  the  gentleman  is  polite  enough." 

"  So's  the  devil  himself." 

"  He  can  behave  and  keep  his  temper,  anyway." 

*'  Then  it's  the  only  thing  he  can  keep.  He  can't  keep  his 
character  or  his  credit  or  his  honor,  and  you  should  not  en- 
courage him." 

Kate's  under  lip  began  to  show  the  inner  half.  "Who  says 
I  encourage  him  ? " 

"I  do." 

"  What  right  have  you  ?  " 

"  Haven't  I  seen  you  with  my  own  eyes  ? " 

Kate  grew  defiant.     "  Well,  and  what  if  you  have  ? '' 

"  Then  you  are  a  jade  and  a  coquette." 

The  word  hissed  out  like  steam  from  a  kettle.  Kate  saw  it 
coming  and  took  it  full  in  the  face.  She  felt  an  impulse  to 
scream  with  laughter,  so  she  seized  her  opportunity  and 
cried. 

Philip's  temper  began  to  ebb.  ''That  man  would  be  a 
poor  bargain,  Kate,  if  he  were  twenty  times  the  heir  of  Balla- 
whaine.     Can't  you  gather  from  his  conversation  what  his 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  Y9 

life  and  companions  are  ?  Of  course  it's  nothing  to  me, 
Kate " 

"No,  it's  nothing  to  you,"  whimpered  Kate,  from  behind 
both  hands. 

''  IVe  no  right " 

"  Of  course  not;  you've  no  right,"  said  Kate,  and  she  stole 
a  look  sideways. 

"  Only " 

Philip  did  not  see  the  glance  that  came  from  the  corner  of 
Kate's  eye. 

"  When  a  girl  forgets  a  manly  fellow,  who  happens  to  be 
abroad,  for  the  first  rascal  that  comes  along  with  his  dirty 
lands " 

Down  went  the  hands  with  an  impatient  fling.  "What 
are  his  lands  to  me  ? " 

''Then  it's  my  duty  as  a  friend " 

"  Duty  indeed !    Just  what  every  old  busybody  says.'' 

Philip  gripped  her  wrist.  "Listen  to  me.  If  you  don't 
send  this  man  packing " 

"  You  are  hurting  me.     Let  go  my  arm." 

Philip  flung  it  aside  and  said,  "  What  do  I  care  ?" 

"  Then  why  do  you  call  me  a  coquette  ? " 

"  Do  as  you  like." 

"  So  I  will.     Philip  !     Philip  !     Phil  !     He's  gone." 

It  was  twenty  miles  by  coach  and  rail  from  Douglas  to 
Sulby,  but  Philip  was  back  at  "  The  Manx  Fairy  "  the  next 
evening  also.  He  found  a  saddle-horse  linked  to  the  gate-post 
and  Eoss  inside  the  house  with  a  riding-whip  in  his  hand, 
beating  the  leg  of  his  riding-breeches. 

When  Philip  appeared,  Kate  began  to  look  alarmed,  and 
Eoss  to  look  ugly.  Caesar,  who  was  taking  his  tea  in  the 
ingle,  was  having  an  unpleasant  passage  with  Grannie  in  side- 
breaths  by  the  fire. 

"Bad,  bad,  a  notorious  bad  liver  and  dirty  with  the 
tongue,"  said  Caesar. 

"  Chut,  father  !  "  said  Grannie.  "  The  young  man's  civil 
enough,  and  girls  will  be  girls.  What's  a  word  or  a  look  or  a 
laugh  when  you're  young  and  have  a  face  that's  fit  for  anything. " 

"  Better  her  face  should  be  pitted  with  smallpox  than  bring 
her  to  the  pit  of  hell,"  said  Caesar.  "  All  flesh  is  grass:  the 
grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth." 


80  THE   MANXMAN. 

Nancy  Joe  came  from  the  dairy  at  that  moment.  "  Gra- 
cious me  !  did  you  see  that  now  ? ''  she  said.  '*  I  wonder  at 
Kitty.  But  it's  the  way  of  the  men,  smiling  and  smiUng  and 
maning  nothing." 

"  Hm  !     They  mane  a  dale, "  growled  Cassar. 

Ross  had  recovered  from  his  uneasiness  at  Philip's  en- 
trance, and  was  engaged  in  some  narration  whereof  the  only 
words  that  reached  the  kitchen  were  /  knoiv  and  /  Jcnoiv  re- 
peated frequently. 

"You  seem  to  know  a  dale,  sir,"  shouted  Cffisar;  "do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  be  saved  ?  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Ross,  polishing 
his  massive  signet  ring  on  his  corduroy  waistcoat,  said,  "Is 
that  the  old  gentleman's  complaint,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  My  husband  is  a  local  preacher  and  always  strong  for 
salvation,"  said  Grannie  by  way  of  peace. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Ross.  "  I  thought  perhaps  he  had  taken 
more  wine  than  the  sacrament." 

"You're  my  cross,  woman,"  muttered  Caesar,  "but  no  cross 
no  crown." 

"  Lave  women's  matters  alone,  father;  it'll  become  you  bet- 
ter," said  Grannie. 

"Laugh  as  you  like,  Mistress  Cregeen;  there's  One  above, 
there's  One  above." 

Ross  had  resumed  his  conversation  with  Kate,  who  was 
looking  frightened.  And  listening  with  all  his  eai'S,  Philip 
caught  the  substance  of  what  was  said. 

"  I'm  due  back  by  this  time.  There's  the  supper  at  Hand- 
some Honey's,  not  to  speak  of  the  everlasting  examinations. 
But  somehow  I  can't  tear  myself  away.  \Vhy  not  ?  Can't  you 
guess  ?  No  ?  Not  a  notion  ?  I  would  go  to-morrow— Kitty, 
a  word  in  your  ear " 

"  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  man  is  for  kissing  her,"  said 
Caesar.     "If  he  does,  then  by — he's  done  it  !     Houkl,  sir." 

Cffisar  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  in  a  moment  the  house  was 
in  an  uproar.  Ross  lifted  his  head  like  a  cock.  "  Were  you 
speaking  to  me,  mister  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was,  and  don't  demane  yourself  like  that  again,"  said 
Caesar. 

"  Like  what  ? "  said  Ross. 

"  Paying  coort  to  a  girl  that  isn't  fit  for  you." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  SI 

Ross  lifted  his  hat,  "Do  you  mean  this  young  lady  ?" 

"  No  young  lady  at  all,  sir,  but  the  daughter  of  a  plain,  re- 
spectable man  that  isn't  going  to  see  her  fooled.  Your  hat  to 
your  head,  sir.     You'll  be  wanting  it  for  the  road."^ 

"  Father  ! "  cried  Kate,  in  a  voice  of  fear. 

Ca3sar  turned  his  rough  shoulder  and  said,  "  Go  to  your 
room,  ma'am,  and  keep  it  for  a  week." 

''  You  may  go,"  said  Ross.  "  I'll  spare  the  old  simpleton 
for  your  sake,  Kate." 

"  You'll  spare  me,  sir  ? "  cried  Caesar.  "  I've  seen  the  day 
— but  thank  the  Lord  for  restraining  grace  !  Spare  me  ?  If 
you  had  said  as  much  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  sir,  your  head 
would  have  gone  ringing  against  the  wall." 

"  I'll  spar^  you  no  more,  then,"  said  Ross.  "  Take  that— 
and  that." 

Amid  screams  from  the  women,  two  sounding  blows  fell  on 
Caesar's  face.  At  the  next  instant  Philip  was  standing  between 
the  two  men. 

''  Come  this  way,"  he  said,  addressing  Ross. 

"  If  I  like,"  Ross  answered. 

"  This  way,  I  tell  you,"  said  Philip. 

Ross  snapped  his  fingers.  "  As  you  please,"  he  said,  and 
then  followed  Philip  out  of  the  house. 

Kate  had  run  upstairs  in  terror,  but  five  minutes  afterwards 
she  was  on  the  road,  v,^ith  a  face  full  of  distress,  and  a  shawl 
over  head  and  shoulders.  At  the  bridge  she  met  Kelly,  the 
postman. 

"Which  way  have  they  gone,"  she  panted,  "the  young 
Ballawhaine  and  Philip  Christian  ?  " 

"  I  saw  them  heading  down  to  the  Curragh,"  said  Kelly, 
and  Kate  in  the  shawl,  flew  like  a  bird  over  the  ground  in  that 
direction. 


V. 

The  two  young  men  went  on  without  a  word.  Philip 
walked  with  long  strides  three  paces  in  front,  with  head 
thrown  back,  pallid  face  and  contracted  features,  mouth  firm- 
ly shut,  arms  stiff  by  his  side,  and  difficult  and  audible  breath- 
ing. Ross  slouched  behind  with  an  air  of  elaborate  careless- 
ness,, his  horse  beside  him,  the  reins  over  its  head  and  round 


82  THE   MANXMAN. 

his  arm,  the  riding-whip  under  his  other  arm-pit,  and  both  his 
hands  deep  in  the  breeches  pockets.  There  was  no  road  the 
way  they  went,  but  only  a  cart  track,  interrupted  here  and 
there  by  a  gate,  and  bordered  by  square  turf  pits  half  full  of  water. 

The  days  were  long  and  the  light  was  not  yet  failing.  Be- 
yond the  gorse,  the  willows,  the  reeds,  the  rushes  and  the  sally 
bushes  of  the  flat  land,  the  sun  was  setting  over  a  streak  of 
gold  on  the  sea.  They  had  left  behind  them  the  smell  of  burn- 
ing turf,  of  crackling  sticks,  of  fish,  and  of  the  covrhouse,  and 
were  come  into  the  atmosphere  of  flowering  goi'se  and  damp 
scraa  soil  and  brine. 

"  Far  enough,  aren't  we  ? "  shouted  Ross,  but  Philip  pushed 
on.  He  drew  up  at  last  in  an  open  space,  where  the  gorse  had 
been  burnt  away  and  its  black  remains  desolatefl  the  surface 
and  killed  the  odours  of  life.  There  was  not  a  house  near,  not 
a  landmark  in  sight,  except  a  windmill  on  the  sea's  verge,  and 
the  ugly  tower  of  a  church,  like  the  funnel  of  a  steamship  be- 
tween sea  and  sky. 

"We're  alone  at  last,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"  We  are,"  said  Ross,  interrupting  the  whistling  of  a  tune, 
"and  now  that  you've  got  me  here,  perhaps  you'll  be  good 
enough  to  tell  me  what  we've  come  for." 

Philip  made  no  more  answer  than  to  strip  himself  of  his 
coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  You're  never  going  to  make  a  serious  business  of  this  stu- 
pid affair  ?  "  said  Ross,  leaning  against  the  horse  and  slapping 
the  sole  of  one  foot  with  the  whip. 

"  Take  off  your  coat,"  said  Philip  in  a  thick  voice. 

'VCan  I  help  it  if  a  pretty  girl "  began  Ross. 

"  Will  you  strip  ? "  cried  Philip. 

Ross  laughed.  "Ah!  now  I  remember  our  talk  of  the 
other  night.  But  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  flipping  at 
the  flies  at  the  horse's  head,  ''  that  because  the  little  woman  is 
forgetting  the  curmudgeon  that's  abroad " 

Philip  strode  up  to  him  with  clenched  hands  and  quivering 
lips  and  said,  "  Will  you  fight  ? " 

Ross  laughed  again,  but  the  blood  was  in  his  face,  and  he 
said  tauntingly,  "I  wouldn't  distress  myself,  man.  Daresay 
ril  be  done  with  the  girl  before  the  fellow " 

"  You're  a  scoundrel,"  cried  Philip,  "  and  if  you  won't  stand 
up  to  me " 


BOY  AND   GIRL. 


83 


Eoss  flung  away  his  whip.  "  If  I  must,  I  must,"  he  said, 
and  then  threw  the  horse's  reins  round  the  charred  arm  of  a 
half -destroyed  gorse  tree. 

A  minute  afterwards  the  young  men  stood  face  to 
face. 

"Stop,"  said  Ross,  "let  me  tell  you  first;  it's  only  fair. 
Since  I  went  up  to  London  I've  learnt  a  thing  or  two.  I've 
stood  up  before  men  that  can  strip  a  picture ;  I've  been  oppo- 
site talent  and  I  can  peck  a  bit,  but  I've  never  heard  that  you 
can  stop  a  blow." 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  cried  Philip. 

"  As  you  will.  You  shall  have  one  round,  you'll  want  no 
more." 

The  young  men  looked  badly  matched.  Ross,  in  riding- 
breeches  and  shirt,  with  red  bullet  head  and  sprawling  feet, 
arms  like  an  oak  and  veins  like  willow  boughs.  Philip  in 
shirt  and  knickerbockers,  with  long  fair  hair,  quivering  face, 
and  delicate  figure.  It  was  strength  and  some  skill  against 
nerve  alone. 

Like  a  rush  of  wind  Philip  came  on,  striking  right  and  left, 
and  was  driven  back  by  a  left-hand  body-blow. 

''  There,  you've  got  it,"  said  Ross,  smiling  benignly.  "  Didn't 
I  tell  you?    That's  old  Bristol  Bull  to  begin  with." 

Philip  rushed  on  again,  and  came  back  with  a  smashing 
blow  that  cut  his  nether  lip. 

"You've  got  a  second,"  said  Ross.  "Have  you  had 
enough  ? " 

Philip  did  not  hear,  but  sprang  fiercely  at  Ross  once  more. 
The  next  instant  he  w^as  on  the  ground.  Then  Ross  took  on  a 
manner  of  utter  contempt.  "  I  can't  keep  on  flipping  at  you 
all  night.'' 

"Mock  me  when  you've  beaten  me,"  said  Philip,  and  he 
was  on  his  feet  again,  somewhat  blown,  but  fresh  as  to  spirit 
and  doggedly  resolute. 

"  Toe  the  scratch,  then,"  said  Ross.  "  I  must  say  you're 
good  at  your  gruel." 

Philip  flung  himself  on  his  man  a  third  time,  and  fell  more 
heavily  than  before,  under  a  flush  hit  that  seemed  to  bury  itself 
in  his  chest. 

"  I  can't  go  on  fighting  a  man  that's  as  good  for  nothing  as 
my  old  grandmother,"  said  Ross. 


84  THE   MANXMAN. 

But  his  contempt  was  abating-;  he  was  growing  uneasy; 
Philip  was  before  him  as  fierce  as  ever. 

"  Fight  your  equal,"  he  cried. 

"  I'll  fight  you,"  growled  Philip. 

"  You Ve  not  fit.  Give  it  up.  And  look,  the  dark  is  fall- 
ing." 

"  There's  enough  daylight  yet.     Come  on. " 

"Nobody  is  here  to  shame  you." 

"Come  on,  I  say." 

Philip  did  not  wait,  but  sprang  on  his  man  like  a  tiger. 
Ross  met  his  blow,  dodged,  feinted ;  they  gripped,  swinging  to 
and  fro;  there  was  a  struggle,  and  Philip  fell  again  with  a  dull 
thud  against  the  ground. 

"  Will  you  stop  now  ?  "  said  Poss. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  cried  Philip,  leaping  to  his  feet. 

"I'll  eat  you  up.  I'm  a  glutton,  I  can  tell  you."  But  his 
voice  trembled,  and  Philip,  blind  with  passion,  laughed. 

"You'll  be  hurt,"  said  Ross. 

"  What  of  that  ? "  said  Philip. 

"You'll  be  killed." 

"I'm  willing." 

Ross  tried  to  laugh  mockingly,  but  the  hoarse  gurgle 
choked  in  his  throat.  He  began  to  tremble.  "  This  man 
doesn't  know  when  he's  mauled,"  he  muttered,  and  after  a 
loud  curse  he  stood  up  afresh,  with  a  craven  and  shifty  look. 
His  blows  fell  like  scorching  missiles,  but  Philip  took  them 
like  a  rock  scoured  with  shingle,  raining  blood  like  water,  but 
standing  firm. 

"  What's  the  use  ? "  cried  Ross;  " drop  it." 

"  I'll  drop  myself  first,''  said  Philip. 

"  If  you  won't  give  it  up,  I  will,"  said  Ross. 

"  You  shan't,"  said  Philip. 

"Take  your  victory  if  you  like." 

"I  won't." 

"  Say  you've  licked  me." 

"  I'll  do  it  first,"  said  Philip. 

Ross  laughed  long  and  riotously,  but  he  was  trembling  like 
a  whipped  cur.  With  a  blob  of  foam  on  his  lips  he  came  up, 
collecting  all  his  strength,  and  struck  Philip  a  blow  on  the 
forehead  that  fell  w4th  the  sound  of  a  hammer  on  a  coffin. 

"  Are  you  done  ? "  he  snuffled. 


BOY   AND   GIRL. 


85 


"No,  by  God,"  cried  Philip,  black  as  ink  with  the  burnt 
gorse  from  the  ground,  except  where  the  blood  ran  red  on 
him. 

"  This  man  means  to  kill  me,"  mumbled  Ross.  He  looked 
round  shiftily,  and  said,  "I  mean  no  harm  by  the  girl." 

"  You're  a  liar !  "  cried  Philip. 

With  a  glance  of  deep  malignity,  Ross  closed  with  Philip 
again.  It  was  now  a  struggle  of  right  with  wrong  as  well  as 
nerve  with  strength.  The  sun  had  set  under  the  sea,  the  sally 
bushes  were  shivering  in  the  twilight,  a  flight  of  rooks  were 
screaming  overhead.  Blows  were  no  more  heard.  Ross 
gripped  Philip  in  a  venomous  embrace,  and  dragged  him  on 
to  one  knee.  Philip  rose,  Ross  doubled  round  his  waist, 
pushing  him  backward,  and  fell  heavily  on  his  breast,  shout- 
ing with  the  growl  of  a  beast,  "You'll  fight  me,  will  you?  Get 
up,  get  up ! " 

Philip  did  not  rise,  and  Ross  began  dragging  and  lunging 
at  him  with  brutal  ferocity,  when  suddenly,  where  he  bent 
double,  a  blow  fell  on  his  ear  from  behind,  another  and  an- 
other, a  hand  gripped  his  shirt  collar  and  choked  him,  and  a 
voice  cried,  "  Let  go,  you  brute,  let  go,  let  go." 

Ross  dropped  Philip  and  swung  himself  round  to  return 
the  attack. 

It  was  the  girl.     "  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?  "  he  panted. 
She  was  like  a  fury.     "  You  brute,  you  beast,  you  toad,"  she 
cried,  and  then  threw  herself  over  Philip. 

He  was  unconscious.  She  lifted  his  head  on  to  her  lap, 
and,  lost  to  all  shame,  to  all  caution,  to  all  thought  but  one 
thought,  she  kissed  him  on  the  cheek,  on  the  lips,  on  the  eyes, 
on  the  forehead,  crying,  "Philip  !  oh,  Philip,  Philip  !" 

Ross  was  shuddering  beside  them.  "  Let  me  look  at  him," 
he  faltered,  but  Kate  fired  back  with  a  glance  like  an  arrow, 
and  said,  screaming  like  a  sea-gull,  "  If  you  touch  him  again 
I'll  strangle  you." 

Ross  caught  a  glimpse  of  Philip's  face,  and  he  was  terrified. 
Going  to  a  turf  pit,  he  dipped  both  hands  in  the  dub,  and 
brought  some  water.  "  Take  this,"  he  said,  "  for  Heaven's 
sake  let  me  bathe  his  head." 

He  dashed  the  water  on  the  pallid  forehead,  and  then  with- 
drew his  eyes,  while  the  girl  coaxed  Philip  back  to  conscious- 
ness with  fresh  kisses  and  pleading  words. 


86  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  Is  he  breathing  ?  Feel  his  heart.  Any  pulsation  ?  Oh, 
God  ! "  said  Ross,  "  it  wasn't  my  fault."  He  looked  round 
with  wild  eyes ;  he  meditated  flight. 

'•  Is  he  better  yet  ?  " 

"What's  it  to  you,  you  coward  ?"  said  Kate,  with  a  burn- 
ing glance.  She  went  on  with  her  work  :  "  Come  then,  dear, 
come,  come  now." 

Philip  opened  his  eyes  in  a  vacant  stare,  and  rose  on  his 
elbow.  Then  Kate  fell  back  from  him  immediately,  and  began 
to  cry  quietly,  being  all  woman  now,  and  her  moral  courage 
gone  again  in  an  instant. 

But  the  moral  courage  of  Mr.  Ross  came  back  as  quickly. 
He  began  to  sneer  and  to  laugh  lightly,  i^icked  up  his  riding- 
whip  and  strode  over  to  his  horse. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ? "  asked  Kate,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Is  it  Kate  ? "  said  Philip. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  in  that  low  whisper,  Kate's  tears 
came  streaming  down. 

"I  hope  you1l  forgive  me,"  she  said.  "I  should  have 
taken  your  warning." 

She  wiped  his  face  with  the  loose  sleeve  of  her  dress,  and 
then  he  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"  Lean  on  me,  Philip." 

"No,  no,  I  can  walk." 

"  Do  take  my  arm." 

"  Oh  no,  Kate,  I'm  strong  enough." 

"Just  to  please  me." 

"Well— very  well." 

Ross  looked  on  with  jealous  rage.  His  horse,  frightened 
by  the  fight,  had  twirled  round  and  round  till  the  reins  were 
twisted  into  a  knot  about  the  gorse  stump,  and  as  he  liberated 
the  beast  he  flogged  it  back  till  it  flew  around  him.  Then  he 
vaulted  to  the  saddle,  tugged  at  the  curb,  and  the  horse  reared. 
"  Down,"  he  cried  with  an  oath,  and  lashed  brutally  at  the 
horse's  head. 

Meantime  Kate,  going  past  him  with  Philip  on  her  arm, 
was  saying  softly,  "  Are  you  feeling  better,  Philip  ?  " 

And  Ross,  looking  on  in  sulky  meditation,  sent  a  harsh 
laugh  out  of  his  hot  throat,  and  said,  "  Oh,  you  can  make  your 
mind  easy  about  Mm.  If  your  other  man  fights  for  you  like 
that  you'll  do.     Thought  you'd  have  three  of  them,  did  you  ? 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  S7 

Or  perhaps  you  only  wanted  me  for  your  decoy  ?  Why  don't 
you  kiss  him  now,  when  he  can  know  it  ?  But  he's  a  beauty 
to  take  care  of  you  for  somebodj^  else.  Fighting  for  the  other 
one,  eh  ?  Stuff  and  humbug !  Take  him  home,  and  the  curse 
of  Judas  on  the  brace  of  you." 

So  saying,  he  burst  into  wild,  derisive  laughter,  flogged 
his  horse  on  the  ears  and  the  nose,  shouted  ''  Down,  you  brute, 
down !  "  and  shot  off  at  a  gallop  across  the  oi^eu  Curragh. 

Philip  and  Kate  stood  where  he  had  left  them  till  he  had 
disappeared  in  the  mist  rising  off  the  marshy  land,  and  the 
hud  of  his  horse's  hoofs  could  be  no  more  heard.  Their  heads 
were  down,  and  though  their  arms  were  locked,  their  faces 
were  turned  half  aside.  There  was  silence  for  some  time. 
The  girl's  eyelids  quivered ;  her  look  was  anxious  and  help- 
less. Then  Philip  said,  "Let  us  go  home,"  and  they  began  to 
walk  together. 

Not  another  word  did  they  speak.  Neither  looked  into  the 
other's  eyes.  Their  entwined  arms  slackened  a  little  in  a  pas- 
sionless asundering,  yet  both  felt  that  they  must  hold  tight  or 
they  would  fall.  It  was  almost  as  if  Eoss's  parting  taunt  had 
uncovered  their  hearts  to  each  other,  and  revealed  to  them- 
selves their  secret.  They  were  like  other  children  of  the  gar- 
den of  Eden,  driven  out  and  stripped  naked. 

At  the  bridge  they  met  Csesar,  Grannie,  Nancy  Joe,  and 
half  the  inhabitants  of  Sulby,  abroad  with  lanterns  in  search 
of  them. 

"  They're  here,"  cried  Caesar.  "  You've  chastised  him,  then ! 
You'd  bait  his  head  off,  I'll  go  bail.  And  I  believe  enough 
you'll  be  forgiven,  sir.  Yonder  blow  was  almost  bitterer  than 
flesh  can  bear.  Before  my  days  of  grace— but,  praise  the  Lord 
for  His  restraining  hand,  the  very  minute  my  anger  was  up 
He  crippled  me  in  the  hip  with  rheumatics.  But  what's  this  ? " 
holding  the  lantern  over  his  head  ;  "  there's  blood  on  your 
face,  sir  ? " 

"  A  scratch— it's  nothing,"  said  Philip. 

"It's  the  women  that's  in  every  mischief,"  said  Ceesar. 

"  Lord  bless  me,  aren't  the  women  as  good  as  the  men  ? " 
said  Nancy. 

"H'm,"  said  Ca?sar.  "We're  told  that  man  was  made  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels,  but  about  women  we're  just  left 
to  our  own  conclusions." 


88  THE   MANXMAN. 

*'  Scripture  has  nothing  to  do  with  Ross  Christian,  father," 
said  Grannie. 

"  The  Lord  forbid  it,"  said  Caesar.  "  What  can  you  get 
from  a  cat  but  his  skin  ?  And  doesn't  the  man  come  from 
Christian  Ballawhaine  ! " 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  though,  haven't  we  all  come  from 
Adam  ? "  said  Grannie. 

''  Yes  ;  and  from  Eve  too,  more's  the  pity,"  said  Caesar. 


VI. 

For  some  time  thereafter  Philip  went  no  more  to  Sulby. 
He  had  a  sufficient  excuse.  His  profession  made  demand  of 
all  his  energies.  When  he  was  not  at  work  in  Douglas  he  was 
expected  to  be  at  home  with  his  aunt  at  Ballure.  But  neither 
absence  nor  the  lapse  of  years  served  to  lift  him  out  of  the 
reach  of  temptation.  He  had  one  besetting  provocation  to 
remembrance — one  duty  which  forbade  him  to  forget  Kate — 
his  pledge  to  Pete,  his  office  as  Dooiney  Molla.  Had  he  not 
vowed  to  keep  guard  over  the  girl  ?  He  must  do  it.  The  trust 
was  a  sacred  one. 

Philip  found  a  way  out  of  his  difficulty.  The  post  was  an 
impersonal  and  incorruptible  go-between,  so  he  wrote  fre- 
quently. Sometimes  he  had  news  to  send,  for,  to  avoid  the 
espionage  of  Caesar,  intelligence  of  Pete  came  through  him  ; 
occasionally  he  had  love-letters  to  enclose  ;  now  and  then  he 
had  presents  to  pass  on.  When  such  necessity  did  not  arise, 
he  found  it  agreeable  to  keep  up  the  current  of  correspond- 
ence. At  Christmas  he  sent  Christmas  cards,  on  Midsummer 
Dsij  a  bunch  of  moss  roses,  and  even  on  St.  Valentine's  Day  a 
valentine.  All  this  was  in  discharge  of  his  duty,  and  ever\- 
thing  he  did  was  done  in  the  name  of  Pete.  He  persuaded 
himself  that  he  sank  his  own  self  absolutely.  Having  deuied 
his  eyes  the  very  sight  of  the  girl's  face,  he  stood  erect  iu  the 
belief  that  he  was  a  true  and  loyal  friend. 

Kate  was  less  afraid  and  less  ashamed.  She  took  the  ])res- 
ents  from  Pete  and  wore  them  for  Philip.  In  her  secret  heart 
she  thought  no  shame  of  this.  The  years  gave  her  a  larger 
flow  of  life,  and  made  out  of  the  bewitching  girl  a  splendid 
woman,  brought  up  to  the  full  estate  of  maidenly  beauty. 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  §9 

This  change  wrought  by  time  on  her  bodily  form  caused  the 
past  to  seem  to  her  a  very  long  way  otf.  Something  had  oc- 
curred that  made  her  a  different  being.  She  was  like  the 
elder  sister  of  that  laughing  girl  who  had  known  Pete.  To 
think  of  that  little  sister  as  having  a  kind  of  control  over  her 
was  impossible.     Kate  never  did  think  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  she  held  her  tongue.  Her  people  were  taken 
in  by  the  episode  of  Ross  Christian.  According  to  their  view, 
Kate  loved  the  man  and  still  longed  for  him,  and  that  was 
why  she  never  talked  of  Pete.  Philip  was  disgusted  with  her 
unfaithfulness  to  his  friend,  and  that  was  the  reason  of  his 
absence.  She  never  talked  of  Philip  either,  but  they,  on  their 
part,  talked  of  him  perpetually,  and  fed  her  secret  passion  with 
his  praises.  Thus  for  three  years  these  two  were  like  two 
prisoners  in  neighbouring  cells,  very  close  and  yet  very  far 
apart,  able  to  hear  each  other's  voices,  yet  never  to  see  each 
other's  faces,  yearning  to  come  together  and  to  touch,  but  un- 
able to  do  so  because  of  the  wall  that  stood  between. 

Since  the  fight,  Caesar  had  removed  her  from  all  duties  of 
the  inn,  and  one  day  in  the  spring  she  was  in  the  gable  house 
peeling  rushes  to  make  tallow  candles  when  Kelly,  the  post- 
man, passed  by  the  porch,  where  Nancy  Joe  was  cleaning  the 
candle-irons. 

"  Heard  the  newses,  Nancy  ? "  said  Kelly.  "  Mr.  Philip 
Christian  is  let  off  two  years'  time  and  called  to  the  bar." 

Nancy  looked  grave.  "  I'm  sure  the  young  gentleman  is 
that  quiet  and  studdy,"  she  said.  "  What  are  they  doing  on 
him?" 

"  Only  making  him  a  full  advocate,  woman,"  said  Kelly. 

'•  You  don't  say  ? "  said  Nancy. 

"He  passed  his  examination  before  the  Govenar's  man 
yesterday." 

"  Aw,  there  now  ! " 

"  I  took  the  letter  to  Ballure  this  evening." 

"  It's  like  you  would,  Mr.  Kelly.  That's  the  boy  for  you. 
I'm  always  saying  it.  'Deed  I  am.  though,  but  there's  ones 
here  that  won't  have  it  at  all,  at  all." 

"  Miss  Kate,  you  mane  ?  We  know  the  raison.  He's  lumps 
in  her  porridge,  woman.     Good-day  to  you,  Nancy." 

"  Yes,  it's  doing  a  nice  day  enough,  Mr.  Kelly,"  said  Nancy, 
and  the  postman  passed  on. 


90  THE  MANXMAN. 

Kate  came  gliding  out  with  a  brush  in  her  hand.  "What 
was  the  postman  saying  ?  " 

"  That — Mr. — Philip — Christian — has  been  passing— for  an 
advocate,"  said  Nancy  deliberately. 

Kate's  eyes  glistened,  and  her  lips  quivered  with  delight; 
but  she  only  said,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  "  Was  tbat  all 
his  news,  then  ?  " 

"All?  D'ye  say  all?''  said  Nancy,  digging  away  at  the 
candle-irons.  "  Listen  to  the  girl !  And  him  that  good  to  her 
while  her  promist  man's  away !  " 

Kate  shelled  her  rush,  and  said,  with  a  sigh  and  a  sly  look, 
"  I'm  afraid  you  think  a  deal  too  much  of  him,  Nancy." 

"  Then  I'll  be  making  mends,"  said  Nancy,  "  for  some  that's 
thinking  a  dale  too  little." 

"  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  you  see  in  him,"  said 
Kate. 

"  Now,  you  don't  say ! ''  said  Nancy  with  scorching  irony. 
Then,  banging  her  irons,  she  added,  "  I'm  not  much  of  a  wom- 
an for  a  man  myself.  They're  only  poor  helpless  creatures 
anyway,  and  I  don't  approve  of  them.  But  if  I  was  for  putting 
up  with  one  of  the  sort,  he  wouldn't  have  legs  and  arms  like  a 
dolly,  and  a  face  like  curds  and  whey,  and  coat  and  trousers 
that  loud  you  can  hear  them  coming  up  the  street." 

With  this  parting  shot  at  Ross  Christian,  Nancy  flung  into 
the  house,  thinking  she  had  given  Kate  a  dressing  that  she 
would  never  forget.  Kate  was  radiant.  Such  abuse  was 
honey  on  her  lips,  such  scoldings  were  joy-bells  in  her  ears. 
She  took  silent  delight  in  provoking  these  attacks.  They 
served  her  turn  both  w^ays,  bringing  her  delicious  joy  at  the 
praise  of  Philip,  and  at  the  same  time  preserving  her  secret. 


VII. 

La'Ter  that  day  Caesar  came  in  from  the  mill  with  the 
startling  intelligence  that  Philip  was  riding  up  on  the  high- 
road. 

"  Goodness  mercy ! "  cried  Nancy,  and  she  fled  away  to 
wash  her  face.  Grannie  with  a  turn  of  the  hand  settled  her 
cap,  and  smoothed  her  grey  hair  under  it.  Kate  herself  had 
disappeared  like  a  flash  of  light ;  but  as  Philip  dismounted  at 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  91 

the  gate,  looking  taller,  and  older,  and  paler,  and  more  serious, 
but  raising  his  cap  from  his  fair  head  and  smiling  a  smile  like 
sunshine,  she  was  coming  leisurely  out  of  the  porch  v/iih  a 
bewitching  hat  over  her  wavy  black  hair  and  a  band-basket 
over  her  arm. 

Then  there  was  a  little  start  of  surprise  and  recognition,  a 
short  catch  of  quick  breath  and  nervous  salutations. 

"  Fm  going  round  to  the  nests,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  you'll 
step  in  to  see  m.other." 

"  Time  enough  for  that,"  said  Philip.  "■  May  I  help  you 
with  the  eggs  first  ?    Besides,  I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"  Is  it  that  you're  '  admitted  ? ' ''  said  Kate. 

"That's  nothing,"  said  Philip.  "Only  the  A  B  C,  you 
know.     Getting  ready  to  begin,  so  to  speak." 

They  walked  round  to  the  stackyard,  and  he  tied  up  his 
horse  and  gave  it  hay.  Then,  while  they  poked  about  for  eggs 
on  hands  and  Imees  among  the  straw,  under  the  stacks  and 
between  the  bushes,  she  said  she  hoped  he  would  have  success, 
and  he  answered  that  success  was  more  than  a  hope  to  him 
now — it  was  a  sort  of  superstition.  She  did  not  understand 
this,  but  looked  up  at  him  from  all  fours  with  brightening 
eyes,  and  said,  "  What  a  glorious  thing  it  is  to  be  a  man ! " 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Philip.  "  And  yet  I  remember  somebody  who 
said  she  wasn't  sorry  to  be  a  girl." 

"  Did  I  ? "  said  Kate.  ''  But  that  was  long  ago.  And 
/  remember  somebody  else  who  pretended  he  was  glad  I 
was." 

"  That  was  long  ago  too,"  said  Philip,  and  both  laughed 
nervously. 

'*  What  strange  things  girls  are— and  boys !  "  said  Kate^ 
with  a  matronly  sigh,  burying  her  face  in  a  nest  where  a  hen 
was  clucking  and  two  downy  chicks  were  peeping  from  her 
wing. 

They  went  through  to  the  orchard,  where  the  trees  were 
breaking  into  eager  blossoms. 

"  Pve  another  letter  for  you  from  Pete,"  said  Philip. 

''  So  ? "  said  Kate. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Philip. 

"  Won't  you  read  it  ? "  said  Kate. 

"But    it's   yours;    surely   a  girl    doesn't   want    anybody 

else " 

7 


92  THE   MANXMAX. 

"  All !  but  you're  different,  though ;  you  know  everything 
— and  besides— read  it  aloud.  Philip/' 

With  her  basket  of  eggs  on  one  arm,  and  the  other  hand 
on  the  outstretched  arm  of  an  apple-tree,  she  waited  while  he 
read: 

"  Dearest  Kitty, — How's  yourself,  darling,  and  how's  Philip, 
and  how's  Grannie  ?  I'm  getting  on  tremendous.  They're 
calling  me  Captain  now — Capt'n  Pete.  Sort  of  ovei'seer  at  the 
Diamond  Mines  outside  Kimberley.  Regular  gentleman's  life 
and  no  mistake.  Nothing  to  do  but  sit  under  a  monstrous  big 
umbrella,  with  a  paper  in  your  fist,  like  a  chairman,  while 
twent}'  Kaffirs  do  the  work.  Just  a  bit  of  a  tussle  now  and 
then  to  keep  you  from  dropping  off.  When  a  Kaffir  turns  up 
a  diam.ond,  you  grab  it,  and  mark  it  on  the  time-sheet  against 
his  name.  They've  got  their  own  outlandish  ones,  but  we 
always  christen  them  ourselves  —  Sixpence,  Seven  W'aist- 
coats,  Shoulder-of -Mutton,  Twopenny  Trotter — anything  you 
like.  When  a  Kaffir  strikes  a  diamond,  he  gets  a  commission, 
and  so  does  his  overseer.  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be  getting 
tenable  rich  soon.  Tell  the  old  man  I'll  be  buying  that  har- 
monia  yet.  They  are  a  knowing  lot,  though,  and  if  they  can 
get  up  a  dust  to  smuggle  a  stone  when  you're  not  looking, 
they  will.  Then  they  sell  it  to  the  blackleg  Boers,  and  you've 
got  to  raise  your  voice  like  an  advocate  to  get  it  back  some- 
how. But  the  Boers  can't  do  no  harm  to  you  with  their  fists 
at  all — it's  playing.  They're  a  dirty  lot.  wonderful  straight 
like  some  of  the  lazy  Manx  ones,  especially  Black  Tom. 
When  they  see  us  down  at  the  river  washing,  they  say, 
'  What  dirty  people  the  English  must  be  if  they  have  to  wash 
themselves  three  times  a  day — we  only  do  it  once  a  week.' 
When  a  Kaffir  steals  a  stone  we  usually  court-martial  him, 
but  I  don't  hold  with  it,  as  the  floggers  on  the  compound 
can't  be  trusted;  so  I  always  lick  my  own  niggers,  being 
m^ore  kinder,  and  if  anybody  does  anything  against  me,  they 
lynch  him." 

Kate  made  a  little  patient  sigh  and  turned  away  her  head, 
while  Philip,  in  a  halting  voice,  went  on — 

"Darling  Kitty,  I  am  longing  mortal  for  a  sight  of  your 
sweet  face.  W^hen  the  night  comes,  and  I'll  be  lying  in  the 
huts — boards  on  the  ground,  and  good  canvas,  and  everything 
comfortable— says  I  to  the  boys,  '  Shut  your  faces,  men,  and 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  93 

let  a  poor  chap  sleep;'  but  they  never  twig  the  darkness  of 
my  meaning.  I'll  only  be  wanting  a  bit  of  quiet  for  thinking 
of  ...  .  with  the  stars  atwinkling  down  ....  She's  looking 
at  that  one  ....  Shine  on  my  angel  .  .  .  ." 

"Really,  Kate/'  faltered  Philip,  "I  can't " 

"  Give  it  to  me,  then,"  said  Kate. 

She  was  tugging  with  her  trembling  hand  at  the  arm  of 
the  apple-tree,  and  the  white  blossom  was  raining  over  her 
from  the  rowels  of  the  thin  boughs  overhead,  like  silver  fish 
falling  from  the  herring-net.  Taking  the  letter,  she  glanced 
over  the  close — 

"  darlin  Kirry  how  is  the  mackral  this  saison  and  is  the 
millin  doing  middling  and  I  wonder  is  the  hens  all  layin  and 
is  the  grace  gone  out  of  the  mares  leg  yet  and  how  is  the  owl 
man  and  is  he  still  playin  hang  with  the  texes  Theer  is  a 
big  chap  heer  that  is  strait  like  him  he  hath  swallowed  the 
owl  Book  and  cant  help  bring  it  up  agen  but  dear  Kirry  no 
more  at  present  i  axpect  to  be  Home  sune  bogh,  to  see  u  all 
tho  I  dont  no  azactly    With  luv  your  1  Living  swateart  peat." 

When  she  had  finished  the  letter,  she  turned  it  over  in  her 
fingers,  and  gave  another  patient  little  sigh.  "You  didn't 
read  it  as  it  was  spelled,  Philip,"  she  said. 

"  What  odds  if  the  spelling  is  uncertain  when  the  love  is 
as  sure  as  that  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  Did  he  write  it  himself,  think  you  ? "  said  Kate. 

"He  signed  it,  anyway,  and  no  doubt  indited  it  too;  but 
perhaps  one  of  the  Gills  boys  held  the  pen." 

She  coloured  a  little,  slipped  the  letter  dovv-n  her  dress  into 
her  pocket,  and  looked  ashamed. 


VIII. 

This  shame  at  Pete's  letter  tormented  Philip,  and  he  stayed 
away  again.  His  absence  stimulated  Kate  and  made  Pliilip 
himself  ashamed.  She  was  vexed  with  him  that  he  did  not 
see  that  all  this  matter  of  Pete  w^as  foolishness.  It  was  ab- 
surd to  think  of  a  girl  marrying  a  man  whom  she  had  known 
when  he  was  a  boy.  But  Philip  was  trying  to  keep  the  bond 
sacred,  and  so  she  made  her  terms  with  it.  She  used  Pete  as 
a  link  to  hold  Philip. 


9J:  THE   MANXMAN'. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  months,  in  which  Philip  had  not 
been  seen  at  Sulby,  she  wrote  him  a  letter.  It  was  to  say  how 
anxious  she  had  been  at  the  length  of  time  since  she  had 
last  heard  from  Pete,  and  to  ask  if  he  had  any  news  to  relieve 
her  fears.  The  poor  little  lie  was  written  in  a  trembling-  hand 
which  shook  honestly  enough,  but  from  the  torment  of  other 
feelings. 

Philip  answered  the  letter  in  person.  Something  had  been 
speaking  to  him  day  and  night,  like  the  humming  of  a  top, 
finding  him  pretexts  on  which  to  go;  but  now  he  had  to 
make  excuses  for  staying  so  long  away.  It  was  evening. 
Kate  was  milking,  and  he  went  out  to  her  in  the  cowhouse. 

"  We  began  to  think  we  were  to  see  no  moi^e  of  you,"  she 
said,  over  the  rattle  of  the  milk  in  the  pail. 

''  I've— I've  been  ill,"  said  Philip. 

The  rattle  died  to  a  thin  hiss.     "  Very  ill?  "  she  .asked. 

*•  Well,  no— not  seriously,"  he  answered. 

'•  I  never  once  thought  of  that,"  she  said.  "  Some- 
thing ought  to  have  told  me.  I've  been  reproaching  you, 
too." 

Philip  felt  shame  of  his  subterfuge,  but  yet  more  ashamed 
of  the  tiiith ;  so  he  leaned  against  the  door  and  watched  in 
silence.  The  smell  of  hay  floated  down  from  the  loft,  and 
the  odour  of  the  cow's  breath  came  in  gusts  as  she  turned  her 
face  about.  Kate  sat  on  the  milking-stool  close  by  the  ewer, 
and  her  head,  on  which  she  wore  a  sun-bonnet,  she  leaned 
against  the  cow's  side. 

"  No  news  of  Pete,  then?     No? "  she  said, 

"  No,"  said  Philip. 

Kate  dug  her  head  deeper  in  the  cow,  and  muttered,  "  Dear 
Pete!     So  simple,  so  natural." 

"  He  is,"  said  Philip. 

"  So  good-hearted,  too." 

"Yes." 

"  And  such  a  manly  fellow — any  girl  might  like  him,'"  said 
Kate. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  said  Philip. 

There  was  silence  again,  and  two  pigs  which  had  been 
snoring  on  the  manure  heap  outside  began  to  snort  their  way 
home.  Kate  turned  her  head  so  that  the  crown  of  the  sun- 
bonnet  was  toward  Phillip,  and  said— 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  95 

"  Oh,  dear  !  Can  there  be  anything  so  terrible  as  marrying 
somebody  you  don't  care  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing  so  bad,"  said  Philip. 

The  mouth  of  the  sun-bonnet  came  round.  "  Yes,  there's 
one  thing  worse,  Philip." 

"No?" 

"  Not  having  married  somebody  you  do,"  said  Kate,  and 
the  milk  rattled  like  hail. 

In  the  straw  behind  Kate  there  was  a  tailless  Manx  cat 
with  three  tailed  kittens,  and  Philip  began  to  play  with  them. 
Being  back  to  back  with  Kate,  he  could  keep  his  counte- 
nance. 

"This  old  Horney  is  terrible  for  switching,"  said  Kate, 
over  her  shoulder.  "  Don't  you  think  you  could  hold  her 
tail  ? " 

That  brought  them  face  to  face  again.  "  It's  so  sweet  to 
have  some  one  to  talk  to  about  Pete,"  said  Kate. 

"Yes?" 

"  T  don't  know  how  I  could  bear  his  long  absence  but  for 
that." 

"  Are  you  longing  so  much,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  longing — not  to  say  longing.  Only  you  can't 
think  what  it  is  to  be  .  .  .  have  you  never  been  yourself, 
Philip?" 

"What?" 

"  Hold  it  tight  ...  in  love  ?    No  ? " 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  speaking  at  the  crown  of  the  sun-bon- 
net. "  Ha  !  ha  !  well,  not  properly  perhaps — I  don't — I  can 
hardly  say,  Kate." 

"  There  !  You've  let  it  go,  after  all,  and  she's  covered  me 
with  the  milk  !    But  I'm  finished,  anyway." 

Kate  was  suddenly  radiant.  She  kissed  Horney,  and 
hugged  her  calf  in  the  adjoining  stall  ;  and  as  they  crossed 
the  haggard,  Philip  carrying  the  pail,  she  scattered  great  haad- 
fuls  of  oats  to  a  cock  and  his  two  hens  as  they  cackled  their 
way  to  roost. 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  come  again  soon,  Philip,  eh  ?    It's  so 

sweet  to  have  some  one  to  remind  me  of "  but  Pete's  name 

choked  her  now.  "  Not  that  I'm  likely  to  forget  him— now 
is  that  likely  ?  But  it's  such  a  weary  time  to  be  left  alone, 
and  a  girl  gets  longing.     Did  I  now  ?    Give  me  the  milk,  then. 


96  THE   MANXMAN. 

Did  I  say  I  wasn't  ?  Well,  you  can't  expect  a  girl  to  be  ahcays 
reasonable." 

"Good-bye,  Kate." 

"Yes,  you  had  better  go  now — good-bye." 

Philip  went  away  in  pain,  yet  in  delight,  with  a  delicious 
thrill,  and  a  sense  of  stifling  hypocrisy.  He  had  felt  like  a 
fool.  Kate  must  have  thought  him  one.  But  better  she 
should  think  him  a  fool  than  a  traitor.  It  was  all  his  fault. 
Only  for  him  the  girl  would  have  been  walled  round  by  her 
love  for  Pete.     He  would  come  no  more. 


IX. 

Philip  held  to  his  resolution  for  three  months,  and  grew 
thin  and  -psde.  Then  another  letter  came  from  Pete — a  letter 
for  himself,  and  he  wondered  what  to  do  with  it.  To  send 
it  by  post,  pretending  to  be  ill  again,  would  be  hypocrisy  he 
could  not  support.     He  took  it. 

The  family  were  all  at  home.  Nancy  had  just  finished  a 
noisy  churning,  and  Kate  was  in  the  dairy,  weighing  the  but- 
ter into  x)ounds  and  stamping  it.  Philip  read  the  letter  in  a 
loud  voice  to  the  old  people  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  soft  thump- 
ing and  watery  swishing  ceased  in  the  damp  place  adjoining. 
Pete  was  in  high  feather.  He  had  made  a  mortal  lot  of  money 
lately,  and  was  for  coming  home  quickly.  Couldn't  say  ex- 
actly when,  for  some  rascally  blackleg  Boers,  who  had  been 
corrupting  his  Kaffirs  and  slipped  up  country  with  a  pile  of 
stones,  had  first  to  be  followed  and  caught.  The  job  wouldn't 
take  long  though,  and  they  might  expect  to  see  him  back 
within  a  twelvemonth,  with  enough  in  his  pocket  to  drive 
away  the  devil  and  the  coroner  any  wa3^. 

'•  Bould  fellow  !  "  said  Caesar. 

"  Aw,  deed  on  Pete  ! "  said  Grannie. 

"  Now,  if  it  wasn't  for  that  Ross "  said  Nancy. 

Philip  w(^nt  into  the  dair3^  wliere  Kate  was  now  skimming 
the  cream  of  the  last  night's  milking.  He  was  sorry  there  was 
nothing  but  a  message  for  her  this  time.  Had  she  answered 
Pete's  former  letters  ?    No,  she  had  not. 

"I  must  be  writing  soon,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  blowing  the 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  97 

yellow  surface,  "  But  I  wish— puff— I  could  have  something 
to  tell  him— puff,  piijf— about  you." 

"About  me,  Kate?" 

"  Something  sweet,  I  mean  ''''—puff,  puff,  puff. 

She  shot  a  sly  look  upward.  "  Aren't  you  sure  yet  ?  Can't 
say  still  ?    Not  properly  ?     No  ? " 

Philip  pretended  not  to  understand.  Kate's  laugh  echoed 
in  the  empty  cream  tins.  "  How  you  want  people  to  say 
things  ! " 

"  No,  really "  began  Philip. 

"  I've  always  heard  that  the  girls  of  Douglas  are  so  beau- 
tiful. You  must  see  so  many  now.  Oh,  it  would  be  delicious 
to  write  a  long  story  to  Pete.  Where  you  met— in  church, 
naturally.  What  she's  like— fair,  of  course.  And— and  all 
about  it,  you  know." 

"That's  a  story  you  will  never  tell  to  Pete,  Kate,"  said 
Philip. 

"  No,  never,"  said  Kate  quite  as  light,  and  this  being  just 
what  she  wished  to  hear,  she  added  mournfully.  "  Don't  say 
that,  though.  You  can't  think  what  pleasure  you  are  denying 
me,  and  yourself,  too.  Take  some  poor  girl  to  your  heart, 
Philip.     You  don't  knovi^  how  happy  it  will  make  you." 

"  Are  you  so  happy,  then,  Kate  ? " 

Kate  laughed  merrily.     "  Why,  what  do  you  think  ? " 

"Dear  old  Pete — how  happy  he  should  be,"  said  Philip. 

Kate  began  to  hate  the  very  name  of  Pete.  She  grew 
angry  with  Philip  also.  Why  couldn't  he  guess  ?  Conceal- 
ment was  eating  her  heart  out.  The  next  time  she  saw  Philip, 
he  passed  her  in  the  market-place  on  the  market-day,  as  she 
stood  by  the  tipped-up  gig,  selling  her  butter.  There  was  a 
chatter  of  girls  all  round  as  he  bowed  and  went  on.  This 
vexed  her,,  and  she  sold  out  at  a  penny  a  pound  less,  got  the 
horse  from  the  "  Saddle,"  and  drove  home  early. 

On  the  way  to  Sulby  she  overtook  Philip  and  drew  up. 
He  was  walking  to  Kirk  Michael  to  visit  the  old  Deemster, 
who  was  ill.  Would  he  not  take  a  lift  ?  He  hesitated,  half 
declined,  and  then  got  into  the  gig.  As  she  settled  herself 
comfortably  after  this  change,  he  trod  on  the  edge  of  her 
dress.  At  that  he  drew  quickly  away  as  if  he  had  trodden  on 
her  foot. 

She  laughed,  but  she  was  vexed  ;  and  when  he  got  down 


98  THE  MANXMAN. 

at  "  The  Manx  Fairy,"  saying  he  might  call  on  his  way  back 
in  the  evening,  she  had  no  doubt  Grannie  would  be  glad  to 
see  him. 

The  girls  of  the  market-place  were  standing  by  the  mill- 
pond,  work  done,  and  arms  crossed  under  their  aprons,  twit- 
tering like  the  pairing  birds  about  them  in  the  trees,  when 
Philip  returned  home  by  Sulby.  He  saw  Kate  coming  down 
the  glen  road,  driving  two  heifers  with  a  cushag  for  switch 
and  flashing  its  gold  at  them  in  the  horizontal  gleams  of  sun- 
set. She  had  recovered  her  good-humour,  and  was  swinging 
along,  singing  merry  snatches  as  she  came — all  life,  all  girlish 
blood  and  beauty. 

She  pretended  not  to  see  him  until  they  were  abreast,  and 
the  heifers  were  going  into  the  yard.  Then  she  said,  '*  I've 
written  and  told  him." 

"  What  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  That  you  say  you  are  a  confirmed  old  bachelor." 

''  That  I  say  so  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  that  I  say  you  are  so  distant  with  a  girl  that  I 
don't  believe  you  have  a  heart  at  all." 

"You  don't?" 

"  No ;  and  that  he  couldn't  have  left  anybody  better  to  look 
after  me  all  these  years,  because  you  haven't  eyes  or  ears  or  a 
thought  for  any  living  creature  except  himself." 

"  You've  never  written  that  to  Pete  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  Haven't  I,  though  ? "  said  Kate,  and  slie  tripped  off  on 
tiptoe. 

He  tripped  after  her.  She  ran  into  the  yard.  He  ran  also. 
She  opened  the  gate  of  the  orchard,  slipped  through,  and 
made  for  the  door  of  the  dairy,  and  there  he  caught  her  by 
the  Avaist. 

"  Never,  you  rogue  !    Say  no,  say  no  ! "  he  panted. 

"  No,"  she  whispered,  turning  up  her  lips  for  a  kiss. 


X. 

Grannie  saw  nothing  of  Philip  that  night.  He  went 
home  tingling  with  pleasure,  and  yet  overwhelmed  with 
shame.  Sometimes  he  told  himself  that  he  was  no  better 
than  a  Judas,  and  sometimes  that  Pete  might  never  come 


BOY  AND  GIRL. 


00 


back.  The  second  thought  rose  oftenest.  It  crossed  his  mind 
hke  a  ghostly  gleam.  He  half  wished  to  believe  it.  When 
he  counted  up  the  odds  against  Pete's  return,  his  pulse  beat 
quick.  Then  he  hated  himself.  He  was  in  torment.  But 
under  his  distracted  heart  there  Avas  a  little  chick  of  frightened 
joy,  like  a  young  cuckoo  hatched  in  a  wagtail's  nest. 

After  many  days,  in  which  no  further  news  had  come  from 
Pete,  Kate  received  this  brief  letter  from  Philip  : 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  this  evening.  Have  something 
of  grave  importance  to  tell  you." 

It  was  afternoon,  and  Kate  ran  upstairs,  hurried  on  her 
best  frock,  and  came  down  to  help  Nancy  to  gather  apples  in 
the  orchard.  Black  Tom  was  there,  new  thatching  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  Caesar  was  making  sugganes  (straw  rope) 
for  him  with  a  twister.  There  was  a  soft  feel  of  autumn  in 
the  air,  pigeons  were  cooing  in  the  ledges  of  the  mill-house 
gable,  and  everything  was  luminous  and  tranquil.  Kate  had 
climbed  to  the  fork  of  a  tree,  and  was  throwing  apples  into 
Nancy's  apron,  when  the  orchard  gate  clicked,  and  she  uttered 
a  little  cry  of  joy  unawares  as  Philip  entered.  To  cover  this, 
she  pretended  to  be  falling,  and  he  ran  to  help  her. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  the  bough  was 
breaking.  So  it's  you  ! "  Then,  in  a  clear  voice,  "  Is  your 
apron  full,  Nancy  ?  Yes  ?  Bring  another  basket,  fhen ;  the 
white  one  with  the  handles.  Did  you  come  Laxey  way  by  the 
coach  ?  Rode  over,  eh  ?  Nancy,  do  you  really  think  we'll 
have  sugar  enough  for  all  these  Keswicks  ? " 

"  Good  evenin',  Mr.  Christian,  sir,"  said  Caesar.  And  Black 
Tom,  from  the  ladder  on  the  roof,  nodded  his  wide  straw 
brim. 

"  Thatching  afresh,  Mr.  Cregeen  ? " 

"  Covering  it  up,  sir  ;  covering  it  up.  May  the  Lord  cover 
our  sins  up  likewise,  or  how  shall  we  cover  ourselves  from  His 
avenging  wrath  ? " 

"  How  vexing  !  "  said  Kate,  from  the  tree.  "  Half  of  them 
get  bruised,  and  will  be  good  for  nothing  but  preserving. 
They  drop  at  the  first  touch — so  ripe,  you  see." 

"  May  we  all  be  ripe  for  the  great  gathering,  and  good  for 
preserving,  too,"  said  Caesar.  "  Look  at  that  big  one,  now- 
knotted  like  a  blacksmith's  muscles,  but  it'll  go  rotten  as  fast 
as  the  least  lil  one  of  the  lot.     It's  taiching  us  a  lesson,  sir, 


100  THE   MANXMAN. 

that  we  all  do  fall — big  mountains  as  aisy  as  lil  cocks.  This 
world  is  changeable." 

Philip  was  not  listening,  but  looking  up  at  Kate,  with  a 
face  of  half -frightened  tenderness. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  was  afraid  you  must  be  ill 
again— your  apron,  Nancy— that  was  foolish,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  have  been  well  enough,"  said  Philip. 

Kate  looked  at  him.  ''  Is  it  somebody  else  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
got  your  letter." 

'^  Can  I  help  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  What  is  it  ?    I'm  sure  there's  something,"  said  Kate. 

''  Set  your  foot  here,"  he  said. 

"Let  me  down,  I  feel  giddy." 

"  Slowly,  then.     Hold  by  this  one.     Give  me  your  hand." 

Their  fingers  touched,  and  communicated  fire. 

"  Whj^  don't  you  tell  me  ? "  she  said,  with  a  passionate 
tightening  of  his  hand.     "It's  bad  news,  isn't  it?    Are  you 


going  away 


?" 


"  Somebody  who  went  away  will  never  come  back,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Is  it— Pete?" 

"  Poor  Pete  is  gone,"  said  Philip. 

Her  throat  fluttered.     "  Gone  ? " 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  Philip. 

She  tottered,  but  drew  herself  up  quickly.  "  Stop  !  "  she 
said.  "  Let  me  make  sure.  Is  there  no  mistake  ?  Is  it 
true?" 

"Too  true." 

"  I  can  bear  the  truth  now — but  afterwards — to-night— to- 
morrow— in  the  morning  it  might  kill  me  if " 

"  Pete  is  dead,  Kate  ;  he  died  at  Kimberley." 

"Philip!" 

She  burst  into  a  wild  fit  of  hysterical  weeping,  and  buried 
her  face  iD  his  breast. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her,  thinking  to  soothe  her. 
"There  I  be  brave  !  Hold  yourself  firm.  It's  a  terrible  blow. 
I  was  too  sudden.     My  poor  girl.     My  brave  girl  !  " 

She  clung  to  him  like  a  terrified  child  ;  the  tears  came  from 
under  her  eyelids  tightly  closed  ;  the  flood-gates  of  four  years' 
reserve  went  down  in  a  moment,  and  she  kissed  him  on  the 
lips. 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  1,,^ 

And,  throbbing  with  bliss  and  a  'pressed  leli'ef  froin-four 
years'  hypocrisy  and  treason,  he  kissed  her  back,  and  they 
smiled  through  their  tears. 

Poor  Pete  !     Poor  Pete  !     Poor  Pete  ! 


XI. 

At  the  sound  of  Kate's  crying,  Caesar  had  thrown  away 
the  twister  and  come  close  to  listen,  and  Black  Tom  had 
dropped  from  the  thatch.  Nancy  ran  back  with  the  basket, 
and  Grannie  came  hurrying  from  the  house. 

Csesar  lifted  both  hands  solemnly.  "  Now,  you  that  are 
women,  control  yourselves,"  said  he,  "  and  listen  while  I 
spake.     Peter  Quilliam's  dead  in  Kimberley." 

"  Goodness  mercy  !  "  cried  Grannie. 

"  Lord  alive  !  "  cried  Nancy. 

And  the  two  women  went  indoors,  threw  their  aprons  over 
their  heads,  and  rocked  themselves  in  their  seats. 

"  Aw  boy  veen  !  boy  veen  !  " 

Kate  came  tottering  in,  ghostly  white,  and  the  women  fell 
to  comforting  her,  thereby  making  more  tumult  with  their 
soothing  moans  than  Kate  with  her  crying. 

"Chut*!  Put  a  good  face  on  it,  woman,"  said  Black  Tom. 
"  A  whippa  of  a  girl  like  you  will  be  getting  another  soon,  and 
singing,  '  Hail,  Smiling  Morn  ! '  with  the  best." 

"Shame  on  you,  man.  Are  you  as  drunk  as  Mackillya  ? " 
cried  Nancy.     "  Your  own  grandson,  too  !  " 

"  Never  another  for  Kate,  anyway,"  wept  Grannie.  "  Aw 
boy  veen,  aw  boy  veen  I " 

"Maybe  he  had  another  himself,  who  knows  ?"  said  Black 
Tom.  "  Out  of  sight  out  of  mind,  and  these  sailor  lads  have  a 
rag  on  lots  of  bushes." 

Kate  was  helped  to  her  room  upstairs,  Philip  sat  down  in 
the  kitchen,  the  news  spread  like  a  curragh  fire,  and  the  bar- 
room was  full  in  five  minutes.  In  the  midst  of  all  stood 
Caesar,  solemn  and  expansive. 

"  He  turned  his  herring  yonder  night  when  he  left  good- 
bye to  the  four  of  us,"  he  said.  "  My  father  did  the  same  the 
night  he  was  lost  running  rum  for  Whitehaven,  and  I've 
never  seen  a  man  do  it  and  live." 


10'2  THE   MANXMAN. 

^Tts'  forget- at  ybiV  father,"  wept  Grannie.  "It  was  Mr. 
Philip  that  turned  it.     Aw  boy  yeen  I  boy  veen  I  " 

'*  How  could  that  be,  mother  ?  "  said  Cassar.  "  jVIr.  Philip 
isn't  dead." 

But  Grannie  heard  no  more.  She  was  busy  with  the  con- 
solations of  half-a-dozen  women  who  were  gathered  around 
her.  ''  I  dreamt  it  the  night  he  sailed.  I  heard  a  cry,  most 
terrible,  I  did.  '  Father,'  says  I,  '  what's  that  ? '  It  Avas  the 
same  as  if  I  had  seen  the  poor  boy  coming  to  his  end  un- 
timeously.     And  I  didn't  get  a  wink  on  the  night." 

'*  Well,  he  has  gone  to  the  rest  that  remaineth,"  said  Ctesar. 
"The  grass  perisheth,  and  the  worm  devoureth,  and  we'll  all 
be  in  heaven  with  him  soon." 

"  God  forbid,  father  ;  don't  talk  of  such  dreadful  things," 
said  Grannie,  flapping  her  apron.  "Do  you  say  his  mother, 
ma'am  ?  Is  she  in  life  ?  No,  but  under  the  sod,  I  don't  know 
the  years.     Information  of  the  lungs,  poor  thing." 

"  I've  known  him  since  I  was  a  slip  of  a  boy,''  said  one. 
"  It  was  whip-top  time — no,  it  was  peg-top  time " 

"  I  saw  him  the  morning  he  sailed,"  said  another.  "  I  was 
standing  so " 

'*  Mr.  Chi'istian  saw  him  last,"  moaned  Grannie,  and  the 
people  in  the  bar-room  peered  through  at  Philip  with  awe. 

"I  felt  like  a  father  for  the  lad  myself,"  said  Ca?sar,  "he 
wa.s  always  my  white-headed  boy,  and  I  stuck  to  him  with  life. 
He  desarved  it,  too.  Maybe  his  birth  was  a  bit  mischancy,  but 
what's  the  ould  saying, '  Don't  tell  me  what  I  was,  tell  me  what 
I  am.'  And  Pete  was  that  civil  with  the  tongue— a  civiller 
young  man  never  was." 

Black  Tom  tsht  and  spat.  "  Why,  you  were  shouting  out 
of  mercy  at  the  lad,  and  knocking  him  about  like  putty.  He 
wouldn't  get  lave  to  live  with  you,  and  that's  why  he  went 
away." 

"You're  bad  to  forget,  Thomas — I've  always  noticed  it,'' 
said  Caesar. 

"  You'll  be  putting  the  bell  about,  and  praiching  his  funeral, 
eh,  Caesar  ? "  said  somebody. 

"  'Deed,  yes,  man.  Sabbath  first,"  said  Caesar. 

"That's  impossible,  father."  said  Grannie.  "How's  the 
girl  to  have  her  black  ready  ? " 

"  Sunday  week,  then,  or  Sunday  fortnight,  or  the  Sunday 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  103 

after  the  Melliah  (harvest-home),"  said  Csesar  ;  "the  crops  are 
waiting-  for  saving,  but  a  dead  man  is  past  it.  Oh,  I'll  be  faith- 
ful, I'll  give  it  them  straight,  it's  a  time  for  spaking  like  a  dying 
man  to  dying  men  ;  I'll  take  a  tex'  that'll  be  a  lesson  and  a 
warning,  '  Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth " 

Black  Tom  tsht  and  spat  again.  "  I  wouldn't,  Csesar  ; 
they'll  think  you're  going  to  trate  them,"  he  muttered. 

Philip  was  asked  for  particulars,  and  he  brought  out  a 
letter.  Jonaique  Jelly,  John  the  Clerk,  and  Johnny  the 
Constable  had  come  in  by  this  time.  ''Read  it,  Jonaique," 
said  Caesar. 

'*  A  clane  pipe  first,"  said  Black  Tom.  "  Aren't  you  smook- 
ing  on  it,  Caesar  ?.  And  isn't  there  a  croppa  of  rum  anywhere  ? 
No  !  Not  so  much  as  a  plate  of  crackers  and  a  drop  of  tay  go- 
ing ?    Is  it  to  be  a  totaller's  funeral  then  ?  " 

"This  is  no  time  for  feasting  to  the  refreshment  of  our 
carnal  bodies,"  said  Csesar  severely.  "It's  a  time  for  praise 
and  prayer." 

"  I'll  pud  up  a  word  or  dwo,"  said  the  Constable  meekly. 

"Masther  Niplightly,"  said  Caesar,  "don't  be  too  ready  to 
show  your  gift.  It's  vanity.  I'll  engage  in  prayer  my- 
self." And  Caesar  offered  praise  for  all  departed  in  faith  and 
fear. 

"  Caesar  is  nod  a  man  of  a  liberal  spirit,  bud  he  is  powerful 
in  prayer,  dough,''  whispered  the  Constable. 

"  He  isn't  a  prodigal  son,  if  that's  what  you  mane,"  said 
Black  Tom.  "  Never  seen  him  shouting  after  anybody  with  a 
j)int,  anyway." 

"  Now  for  the  letter,  Jonaique,"  said  Caesar. 

It  was  from  one  of  the  Gills'  boys  who  had  sailed  with 
Pete,  and  hitherto  served  as  his  letter-writer. 

"  '  Respected  Sir,'  "  read  Jonaique,  " '  with  pain  and  sorrow  I 
write  these  few  lines,  to  tell  you  of  poor  Peter  Quilliam ' " 

"  Aw  boy  veen,  boy  veen  I "  broke  in  Grannie. 

"  'Knowing  you  were  his  friend  in  the  old  island,  and  the 
one  he  talked  of  mostly,  except  the  girl '  " 

"  Boy  ve " 

"Hush,  woman." 

"'He  made  good  money  out  here,  at  the  diamond 
mines '  " 

"  Never  a  yellow  sovereign  he  sent  to  me,  then,"  said  Black 


104  THE  MANXMAN. 

Tom,  "  nor  the  full  of  your  fist  of  ha'pence  either.  What's  the 
use  of  getting  grand-childers  ?  " 

Caesar  vraved  his  hand.  ''Go  on,  Jonaique.  It's  bad  when 
the  deceitfulness  of  riches  is  getting  the  better  of  a  man." 

"Where  was  I  ?    Oh, '  good  money '    'Yet  he  was  never 

for  taldng  joy  in  it ' " 

"  More  money,  more  cares,"  muttered  Csesar. 

"  '  But  talking  and  talking,  and  scheming  for  ever  for  com- 
ing home.'" 

•'  Ah  !  home  is  a  full  cup,"  moaned  Grannie.  "  It  was  a 
show  the  way  that  lad  was  fond  of  it.  '  Give  me  a  plate  of 
mate,  bolstered  with  cabbage,  and  what  do  I  care  for  theu' 
buns  and  sarves.  Grannie,'  says  he.  Aw,  boy  veen,  boy 
bogh  I " 

"What  does  the  nightingale  care  for  a  golden  cage  when 
he  can  get  a  twig  ? "  said  Cassar. 

"  Is  the  boy's  chest  home  yet  ? "  asked  John  the  Clerk. 

''  There's  something  about  it  here,"  said  Jonaique,  "  if  peo- 
ple would  only  let  a  man  get  on." 

"It's  mine,"  said  Black  Tom. 

"  We'll  think  of  that  by-and-bye,"  said  Caesar,  waving  his 
hand  to  Jonaique. 

'• '  He  had  packed  his  chest  for  going,  when  four  blacklegs, 
who  had  been  hanging  round  the  compound,  tempting  and 
plaguing  the  Kaffirs,  made  ofip  with  a  bag  of  stones.  Desper- 
ate gang,  too  ;  so  nobody  was  running  to  be  sent  after  them. 
But  poor  Peter,  being  always  a  bit  bull-necked,  was  up  to  the 
office  in  a  jiff'y,  and  Might  he  go  ?  And  off  in  chase  in  the 
everin'  with  the  twenty  Kaffirs  of  his  ow^n  company  to  help 
him — not  much  of  a  lot  neither,  and  suspected  of  dealing  dia- 
monds with  the  blacklegs  times  ;  but  Peter  always  swore  their 
love  for  him  was  getting  thicker  and  stronger  every  day  like 
sour  cream.  "  The  captain's  love  has  been  their  theme,  and 
shall  be  till  they  die,"  said  Peter.' " 

"  He  drank  up  the  Word  like  a  thirsty  land  the  rain,'"  said 
Caesar.  "  Peter  Quilliam  and  I  had  mortal  joy  of  each  other. 
'  Good-bye,  father,'  says  he.  and  he  was  shaking  me  by  the 
hand  ter'ble.     But  go  on.  Jonaique." 

"  'That  was  four  months  ago,  and  a  fortnight  since  eight 
of  his  Kaffirs  came  back.'  " 

"  Aw  dear  I "    "  Well,  well  ! "     "  Lord-a-massy !  "    ''  Hush !  " 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  1Q5 

"  '  They  overtook  the  blacklegs  far  up  country,  and  Peter 
tackled  them.  But  they  had  Winchester  repeaters,  and  Peter's 
boys  didn't  know  the  muzzle  of  a  gun  from  the  neck  of  a  gin- 
bottle.  So  the  big  man  of  the  gang  cocked  his  piece  at  Peter, 
and  shouted  at  him  like  a  high  bailifP, ''  You'd  better  go  back  the 
way  you  came."  "Not  immajetly,"  said  Peter,  and  stretched 
him.  Then  tliere  was  smoke  like  a  smithy  on  hooping-day, 
and  "  To  your  heels,  boys,"  shouted  Peter.  And  if  the  boys 
couldn't  equal  Peter  with  their  hands,  they  could  bate  him 
with  their  toes,  and  the  last  they  heard  of  him  he  was  racing 
behind  them  with  the  shots  of  the  blacklegs  behind  him,  and 
shouting  mortal,  "  Oh,  oh  !  All  up  !  I'm  done  !  Home  and 
tell,  boys  !    Oh,  oh."'" 

"  Rejoice  not  against  me,  O  mine  enemy.  When  I  fall  I 
shall  a-rise.     Selah,"  said  Caesar. 

Amid  the  tumult  of  moans  which  followed  the  reading, 
Philip,  sitting  with  head  on  his  hand  by  the  ingle,  grew  hot 
and  cold  with  the  thought  that  after  all  there  was  no  actual 
certainty  that  Pete  was  dead.  Nobody  had  seen  him  die,  no- 
body had  buried  him  ;  the  story  of  the  returned  Kaffirs  might 
be  a  lie  to  cover  their  desertion  of  Pete,  their  betrayal  of  him, 
or  their  secret  league  with  the  thieving  Boers.  At  one  awful 
moment  Philip  asked  himself  how  he  had  ever  believed  the 
letter.     Perhaps  he  had  wanted  to  believe  it. 

Nancy  Joe  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Kate  is  wait- 
ing for  a  word  with  you  alone,  sir,"  she  said,  and  Philip 
crossed  the  kitchen  into  the  little  parlour  beyond,  chill  with 
china  and  bowls  of  sea-eggs  and  stuffed  sea-bii'ds. 

"  He's  feeling  it  bad,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Never  been  the  same  since  Pete  went  to  the  Cape,"  said 
Caesar. 

''  I  don't  know  for  sure  what  good  lads  are  going  to  it  for," 
moaned  Grannie.  "  And  calling  it  Good  Hope  of  all  names  ! 
Died  of  a  bullet  in  his  head,  too,  aw  dear,  aw  dear  !  Discus- 
sion of  the  brain  it's  like.  And  look  at  them  black-heads  too, 
as  naked  as  my  hand,  I'll  go  bail.  I  hate  the  nasty  dirts  ! 
Caesar  may  talk  of  one  flesh  and  brethren  and  all  to  that,  but 
for  my  part  I'm  not  used  of  black  brothers,  and  as  for  black 
angels  in  heaven,  it's  ridiculous." 

"  When  you're  all  done  talking  I'll  finish  the  letter,"  said 
Jonaique. 


106  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  They  can't  help  it,  Mr.  Jelly,  the  women  can't  help  it," 
said  Cffisar. 

"  '  Respected  Sir,  I  must  now  close,  but  vi-e  are  strapping  up 
the  chest  of  the  deceased,  just  as  he  left  it,  and  sending  it  to 
catch  the  steamer,  the  Johannesburg,  leaving  Cape  Town 
Wednesday  fortnight '  " 

''Hm  !  Johannesburg.  I'll  meet  her  at  the  quay — it's  my 
duty  to  meet  her,"  said  Caesar. 

"  x^nd  I'll  board  her  in  the  bay,"  shouted  Black  Tom. 

"  Thomas  Quilliam,"  said  Caesar,  "  it's  borne  in  on  my  spirit 
that  the  devil  of  greed  is  let  loose  on  you.'' 

"Caesar  Cregeen,  don't  make  a  nose  of  wax  of  me,"  bawled 
Tom,  "  and  don't  think  because  you're  praiching  a  bit  that 
religion  is  going  to  die  with  you.  Your  head's  swelling  tre- 
menjous,  and  you  won't  be  able  to  sleep  soon  without  some- 
body to  tickle  your  feet.  You'll  be  forgiving  sins  next,  and 
taking  money  for  absolution,  and  these  ones  will  Ixi  making  a 
pope  of  you  and  paying  you  pence.  Pope  Caesar,  the  publican, 
in  his  chapel  hat  and  white  choker  !  But  that  chiss  is  mine, 
and  if  thei'e's  law  in  the  land  I'll  have  it." 

With  that  Black  Tom  swept  out  of  the  house,  and  Cgesar 
wiped  his  eyes. 

"  No  use  smoothing  a  thistle,  Mr.  Cregeen,''  said  Jouaique 
soothingly. 

"I've  a  conscience  void  of  offence."  said  Cfiesar.  "I  can 
only  follow  the  spirit's  leading.     But  when  Belial " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  most  mournful  cry  of  "  Look  here ! 
Aw,  look,  then,  look  I  " 

Nancy  w*as  coming  out  of  the  back-kitchen  with  something 
between  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  It  was  a  pair  of  old  shoes, 
covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebs. 

"These  were  his  wearing  boots,"  she  said,  and  she  put 
them  on  the  counter. 

"  Dear  heart,  yes,  the  very  ones,"  said  Grannie.  "  Poor 
boy.  they'd  move  a  heart  of  stone  to  see  them.  Something  to 
remember  him  by,  anyway.  Many  a  mile  his  feet  walked  in 
them  ;  but  they're  resting  now  in  Abraham's  bosom." 

Then  Caesar's  voice  rose  loud  over  the  doleful  tones  around 
the  counter.  "'Vital  Spark  of  Heavenly  Flame'— raise  it, 
Mr.  Niplightly.  Pity  we  haven't  Peter  and  his  fiddle  here— 
he  played  with  life." 


BOY   AND   GIKL.  jdY 

"  I  can'd  sing  to-day,  having  a  cold,  bud  I'll  wbisle  id,"  said 
the  Constable. 

"  Pitch  it  in  altoes,  then,"  said  Caesar.  "  I'm  a  bit  of  a 
base  myself,  but  not  near  so  base  as  Peter." 

Meanwhile  a  little  drama  of  serious  interest  was  going  on 
upstairs.  There  sat  Kate  before  the  looking-glass,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  quivering  mouth.  The  low  drone  of  many  voices 
came  to  her  through  the  floor.  Then  a  dull  silence  and  one 
voice,  and  Nancy  Joe  coming  and  going  between  the  kitchen 
and  bedroom. 

"  What  are  they  doing  now,  Nancy  ?"  said  Kate. 

"First  one's  praying,  and  then  another's  praying,"  said 
Nancy.  "  Lord-a-raassy,  thinks  I,  it'll  be  my  turn  next,  and 
what'll  I  say  ?  " 

"  Where's  Mr.  Christian  ?  " 

"  Gone  into  the  parlour.  I  whispered  him  you  wanied 
him  alone." 

"  You  never  said  that,  Nancy,"  said  Kate,  at  Nancy's  re- 
flection in  the  glass. 

"  Well,  it  popped  out,"  said  Nancy. 

Kate  went  down,  with  a  look  of  softened  sorrow,  and 
Philip,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  began  bemoaning  Pete. 
They  would  never  know  his  like — so  simple,  so  true,  so  brave  ; 
never,  never. 

He  was  fighting  against  his  shame  at  first  seeing  the  girl 
after  that  kiss,  which  seemed  to  him  now  like  treason  at  the 
mouth  of  a  grave. 

But,  with  the  magic  of  a  woman's  art,  Kate  consoled  him. 
He  had  one  great  comfort — he  had  been  a  loyal  friend  ;  such 
fidelity,  such  constancy,  such  affection,  forgetting  the  differ- 
ence of  place,  of  education— everything. 

Philip  looked  up  at  last,  and  there  was  the  lovely  face  with 
its  beaming  eyes.  He  turned  to  go,  and  she  said,  softly, 
''  How  we  shall  miss  you  !  " 

''Why  so  ?"  said  Philip. 

"We  can't  expect  to  see  you  so  often  now— now  that 
you've  not  the  same  I'eason  for  coming." 

"  I'll  be  here  on  Sunday,"  said  Philip. 

"  Then  you  don't  intend  to  desert  us  yet — not  just  yet, 
Philip?" 

"  Never  ! "  said  Philip. 
8 


108  THE  MANXMAK 

"  Well,  ^ood-night  !  Not  that  way — not  by  the  porch. 
Good-night  !  " 

As  Philip  went  down  the  road  in  the  darkness,  he  heard 
the  words  of  the  hymn  that  was  being-  suDg  inside  : 

"  Thy  glory  why  did^t  Thou  enshriue 
In  such  a  clod  of  earth  as  mine, 
And  wrap  Thee  in  my  clay." 


XII. 

At  that  moment  day  was  breaking  over  the  plains  of  the 
Transvaal.  The  bare  Veldt  was  opening  out  as  the  darkness 
receded,  depth  on  depth,  like  the  surface  of  an  unbroken  sea. 
Not  a  bush,  not  a  path,  only  a  few  log-houses  at  long  dis- 
tances and  wooden  beacons  like  gibbets  to  define  the  Boer 
farms.  No  sound  in  the  transparent  air,  no  cloud  in  the  un- 
veiling sky  ;  just  the  night  creeping  off  in  silence  as  if  in  fear 
of  awakening  the  sleeping  morning. 

Across  the  soulless  immensity  a  covered  waggon  toiled 
along  with  four  horses  rattling  their  link  chains,  and  a  lad 
sideways  on  the  shaft  dangling  his  legs,  twiddling  the  rope 
reins  and  whistling.  Inside  the  waggon,  under  a  little  win- 
dow with  its  bit  of  muslin  curtain,  a  man  lay  in  the  agony  of 
a  bullet-wound  in  his  side,  and  an  old  Boer  and  a  woman 
stood  beside  him.  He  was  lying  hard  on  the  place  of  his  pain 
and  rambling  in  delirium. 

"  See,  boys  ?    Don't  you  see  them  ?  " 

"  See  what,  my  lad  ? "  said  the  Boer  simply,  and  he  looked 
through  the  waggon  window. 

"  There's  the  head-gear  of  the  mines.  Look  !  the  iron 
roofs  are  glittering.  And  yonder's  the  mine  tailings.  We'll 
be  back  in  a  jiffy.     A  taste  of  the  whip,  boys,  and  away  !  " 

Untouched  by  visions,  the  old  Boer  could  see  nothing. 

"  What  does  he  see,  wife,  think  you  ?  " 

"  What  can  he  see,  stupid,  with  his  face  in  the  pillow  like 
that  ? " 

With  the  rushing  of  blood  in  his  ears  the  sick  man  called 
out  again  : 

"  Listen  I  Don't  you  hear  it  ?  That's  the  noise  of  the  bat- 
teries.    Whip  up,  and  away  !    Away  1 "  and  he  tore  at  the 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  iyy 

fringe  of  the  blanket  covering  him  with  his  unconscious  fin- 
gers. 

"  Poor  boy  !  he's  eager  to  get  to  the  coast.  But  will  he 
live  to  cover  another  morgen,  think  you  ?  " 

"  God  knows,  Jan — Grod  only  knows.'' 

And  the  Veldt  was  very  wide,  and  the  sea  and  its  ships 
were  far  away,  and  over  the  weary  stretch  of  grass,  and  rock, 
and  sand,  there  was  nothing  on  the  horizon  between  desolate 
laud  and  dominating  sky  but  a  waste  looking  like  a  chaos  of 
purple  and  green,  where  no  bird  ever  sang  and  no  man  ever 
lived,  and  God  Himself  was  not. 


XIII. 

"She  loves  me  !  She  loves  me  !  She  loves  me  !"  The 
words  sang  in  Philip's  ears  like  a  sw^eet  tune  half  the  way 
back  to  Ballure.  Then  he  began  to  pluck  at  the  brambles  by 
the  wayside,  to  wound  his  hand  by  snatching  at  the  gorse,  and 
to  despise  himself  for  being  glad  when  he  should  have  been 
in  grief.  Still,  he  was  sure  of  it  ;  there  was  no  making  any 
less  of  it.  She  loved  him,  he  was  free  to  love  her,  there  need 
be  no  hypocrisy  and  no  self-denial ;  so  he  wiped  the  blood  from 
his  fingers,  and  crept  into  the  blue  room  of  Auntie  Nan. 

The  old  lady,  in  a  dainty  cap  with  flying  streamers,  was 
sitting  by  the  fireside  spinning.  She  had  heard  the  news 
of  Pete  as  Philip  passed  through  to  Sulby,  and  was  now 
wondering  if  it  was  not  her  duty  to  acquaint  Uncle  Peter. 
The  sweet  and  natty  old  gentlewoman,  brought  up  in  the 
odour  of  gentility,  was  thinking  on  the  lines  of  poor  Bridget 
Black  Tom  when  dying  under  the  bare  scraas,  that  a  man's 
son  was  his  son  in  spite  of  law  or  devil. 

She  decided  against  telling  the  Ballawhaine  by  remember- 
ing an  incident  in  the  life  of  his  father.  It  was  about  Philip's 
father,  too;  so  Philip  stretched  his  legs  from  the  sofa  towards 
the  hearth,  and  listened  to  the  old  Auntie's  voice  over  the  whirr 
of  her  wheel,  with  another  voice — a  younger  voice,  an  un- 
heard voice— breaking  in  at  the  back  of  his  ears  when  the 
wheel  stopped,  and  a  sweet  undersong  inside  of  him  always, 
saying,  "  Be  sensible  ;  there  is  no  disloyalty ;  Pete  is  dead. 
Poor  Pete  !     Poor  old  Pete  ! " 


110  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Though  he  had  cast  your  father  off,  Philip,  for  threaten- 
ing to  make  your  mother  his  wife,  he  never  believed  thei^ 
was  a  parson  on  the  island  would  dare  to  marry  them  against 
his  wish." 

"No,  really?" 

"  No ;  and  when  Uncle  Peter  came  in  at  dinner-time  a  week 
after  and  said,  *  It's  all  over,'  he  said,  '  No,  sir,  no,'  and  threw 
down  his  spoon  in  the  plate,  and  the  hot  bi'oth  splashed  on 
my  hand,  I  remember.  But  Peter  said,  '  It's  past  praying  for, 
sir,'  and  then  grandfather  cried,  '  No,  I  tell  50U  no.''  'But  I 
tell  you  yes,  sir,'  said  Peter.  '  Maughold  Church  yesterday 
morning  before  service. '  Then  grandfather  lost  himself,  and 
called  Peter  'Liar,'  and  cried  that  your  father  couldn't  do  it. 
'  And,  besides,  he's  my  own  son  after  all,  and  would  not,'  said 
grandfather.  But  I  could  see  that  he  believed  what  Uncle 
Peter  had  told  him,  and,  when  Peter  began  to  cry,  he  said, 
'  Forgive  me,  my  boy ;  I'm  your  father  for  all,  and  I've  a  right 
to  your  forgiveness.'  All  the  same,  he  wouldn't  be  satisfied 
until  he  had  seen  the  register,  and  I  had  to  go  with  him  to 
the  church." 

''  Poor  old  grandfather  ! " 

"  The  vicar  in  those  days  was  a  little  dotty  man  named 
Eissack,  and  it  was  the  joy  of  his  life  to  be  always  crushing 
and  stifling  somebody,  because  somebody  was  always  depriv- 
ing him  of  his  rights  or  something." 

"  I  remember  him — the  Cockatoo.  His  favourite  text  was, 
'Jesus  said,  then  follow  Me,'  only  the  people  declared  he 
always  wanted  to  go  first." 

''  Shocking,  Phihp.  It  was  evening  when  we  drove  up  to 
Maughold,  and  the  little  parson  was  by  the  Cross,  ordering 
somebody  with  a  cane.  '  I  am  told  you  married  my  son  yes- 
terday ;  is  it  true  ? '  said  grandfather.  '  Quite  true,'  said  the 
vicar.  '  By  banns  or  special  license  ? '  grandfather  asked. 
'License,  of  course,'  the  vicar  answered." 

*'  Curt  enough,  any  way." 

"'Show  me  the  register,'  said  grandfather,  and  his  face 
twitched  and  his  voice  was  thick.  '  Can't  you  believe  me  ? ' 
said  the  vicar.  '  Tbe  register,'  said  grandfather.  Then  the 
vicar  turned  the  key  in  the  church  door  and  strutted  up  the 
aisle,  humming  something.  I  tried  to  keep  grandfather  back 
even  then.     '  What's  the  use  ? '  I  said,  for  I  knew  he  was  only 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  HI 

fighting  against  belief.  But,  hat  in  hand,  he  followed  to  the 
Communion  rail,  and  there  the  vicar  laid  the  open  book  before 
him.  Oh,  Philip,  shall  I  ever  forget  it  ?  How  it  all  comes 
back— the  little  dim  church,  the  smell  of  damp  and.  of  velvet 
under  the  hoUaud  covers  of  the  pulpit,  and  the  empty  place 
echoing.  And  grandfather  fixed  his  glasses  and  leaned  over 
the  register,  but  he  could  see  nothing — only  blurr,  blurr,  blurr. 

"  '  You  look  at  it,  child,'  he  said,  over  his  shoulder.  But  I 
daren't  face  it ;  so  he  rubbed  his  glasses  and  leaned  over  the 
book  again.  Oh  dear  !  he  was  like  one  who  looks  down  the 
list  of  the  slain  for  the  name  he  prays  he  may  not  find.  But 
the  name  was  there,  too  surely  :  '  Thomas  Wilson  Christian 
...  to  Mona  Crellin  .  .  .  signed  Wm.  Crellin  and  something 
Kissack.'" 

Philip's  breath  came  hot  and  fast. 

"  The  little  vicar  was  swinging  his  cane  to  and  fro  on  the 
other  side  of  the  rail  and  smiling,  and  grandfather  raised  his 
eyes  to  him  and  said,  '  Do  you  know  what  you've  done,  sir  ? 
You've  robbed  me  of  my  first-born  son  and  ruined  him.' 
'  Nonsense,  sir,'  said  the  vicar,  '  Your  son  was  of  age,  and  his 
wife  had  the  sanction  of  her  father.  Was  I  to  go  round  by 
Ballawhaine  for  permission  to  do  my  duty  as  a  clergyman  ? ' 
'  Duty  ! '  cried  grandfather.  '  When  a  young  man  marries, 
he  marries  for  heaven  or  for  hell.  Your  duty  as  a  clergy- 
man ! '  he  cried,  till  his  voice  rang  in  the  roof.  '  If  a  son  of 
youre  had  his  hand  at  his  throat,  would  you  call  it  my  duty  as 
Deemster  to  hand  him  a  knife.'  'Silence,  sir,'  said  the  vicar. 
'Remember  where  you  stand,  or,  Deemster  though  j^ou  are, 
you  shall  repent  it.'  'Arrest  me  for  brawling,  will  you?' 
cried  grandfather,  and  he  snatched  the  cane  out  of  the  vicar's 
hand  and  struck  him  across  the  breast.  '  Arrest  me  now,'  he 
said,  and  then  tottered  and  stumbled  out  of  the  church  by  my 
arm  and  the  doors  of  the  empty  pews." 

Philip  went  to  bed  that  night  with  burning  brow  and  throb- 
bing throat.  He  had  made  a  startling  discovery.  He  was 
standing  where  his  father  had  stood  before  him ;  he  was  doing 
what  his  father  had  done;  he  was  in  danger  of  his  father's 
fate  !  Where  was  his  head  that  he  had  never  thought  of  this 
before  ? 

It  was  hard — it  was  terrible.  Now  that  he  was  free  to  love 
the  girl,  he  realised  what  it  meant  to  love  her.     Nevertheless 


112  THE  31ANXMAN. 

he  was  young",  and  he  rebelled,  he  fought,  he  would  not  delib- 
erate. The  odrl  conquered  in  his  heart  that  night,  and  he  lay 
down  to  sleep. 

But  next  morning  he  told  himself,  with  a  shudder,  that  it 
was  lucky  he  had  gone  no  farther.  One  step  more  and  all  tlie 
evil  of  his  father's  life  might  have  been  repeated  in  his  own. 
There  had  been  nothing  said,  nothing  done.  He  would  go  to 
Sulby  no  more. 

XIV. 

That  mood  lasted  until  mid-day,  and  then  a  scout  of  the 
line  of  love  began  to  creep  into  his  heart  in  disguise.  He  re- 
minded himself  that  he  had  promised  to  go  on  Sunday,  and 
that  it  would  be  unseemly  to  break  off  the  acquaintance  too 
suddenly,  lest  the  simple  folks  should  think  he  had  borne  with 
them  throujrhout  four  years  merely  for  the  sake  of  Pete.  But 
after  Sunda  \^  he  would  take  a  new  turn. 

He  found  Kate  dressexi  as  she  had  never  been  before.  In- 
stead of  the  loose  red  bodice  and  the  sun-bonnet,  the  apron  and 
the  kilted  petticoat,  she  wore  a  close-fitting  dark  green  frock 
with  a  lace  collar.  The  change  was  simple,  but  it  made  all  the 
difference.  She  was  not  more  beautiful,  but  she  was  more  like 
a  lady. 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  and  the  "  Fairy  "  was  closed.  Csesar 
and  Grannie  were  at  the  preaching-house,  Nancy  Joe  was 
cooking  crowdie  for  supper,  and  Kate  and  Philip  talked.  The 
girl  was  quieter  than  Philip  had  ever  known  her — more  mod- 
est, more  apt  to  blush,  and  with  the  old  audacity  of  word  and 
look  quite  gone.    They  talked  of  success  in  life,  and  she  said — 

''  How  I  should  like  to  fight  my  way  in  the  world  as  you 
are  doing  I  But  a  woman  can  do  nothing  to  raise  herself. 
Isn't  it  hard  ?  Whatever  the  place  where  she  was  born  in,  she 
must  remain  there  all  her  davs.  She  can  see  her  brothers  rise, 
and  her  friends  perhaps,  but  she  must  remain  below.  Isn't  it 
a  pity  ?  It  isn't  that  she  wants  to  be  rich  or  great.  No,  not 
that;  only  she  doesn't  want  to  be  left  behind  by  the  people 
she  likes.  She  must  be,  though,  and  just  because  she's  a 
woman.  I'm  sure  it's  so  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  anyway.  Isn't  it 
cruel  ? " 

"  But  aren't  you  forgetting  something  ?  "  said  Philip. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  II3 

"Yes?" 

"  If  a  woman  can't  rise  of  herself  because  the  doors  of  life 
are  locked  to  her,  it  is  always  possible  for  a  man  to  raise  her." 

"  Some  one  who  loves  her,  you  mean,  and  so  lifts  her  to  his 
own  level,  and  takes  her  up  with  him  as  he  goes  up  V 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Philip. 

Kate's  eyes  beamed  like  sunshine.  "  That  is  lovely,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Do  you  know,  I  never  thought  of  that 
before  !  If  it  were  my  case,  I  should  like  that  best  of  all.  Side 
by  side  with  him,  and  he  doing-  all  ?     Oh,  that  is  beautiful  !  " 

And  she  gazed  up  with  a  timid  joy  at  the  inventive  being 
who  had  thought  of  this  as  at  something  supernatural. 

Caesar  and  Grannie  came  back,  both  in  fearful  outbursts  of 
Sunday  clothes.  Nevertheless  Caesar's  eyes,  after  the  first 
salutation  with  Philip,  fixed  themselves  on  Kate's  unfamiliar 
costume. 

"  Such  worldly  attire  ! "  he  muttered,  following  the  girl 
round  the  kitchen  and  blowing  up  his  black  gloves.  "  This 
caring  for  the  miserable  body  that  will  one  day  be  .lowered 
into  the  grave  !  What  does  the  Book  say  ? — put  my  tall  hat 
on  the  clane  laff,  Nancy.  '  Let  it  not  be  the  outward  adorning 
of  putting  on  of  apparel,  but  let  it  be  the  hidden  man  of  the 
heart.' " 

"  But  sakes  alive,  father,"  said  Grannie,  loosening  a  bonnet 
like  a  diver's  helmet,  "  if  it  comes  to  that,  what  is  Jeremiah 
saying,  '  Can  a  maid  forget  her  ornaments  ? '  " 

"It's  like  she  can  if  she  hasn't  any  to  remember,"  said 
Caesar.  "But  maybe  the  prophet  Jeremiah  didn't  know  the 
mothers  that's  in  now." 

"  Chut,  man  !  Girls  are  like  birds,  and  the  breed  comes 
out  in  the  feathers,"  said  Grannie. 

""  Where's  she  getting  it  then  ?  Not  from  me  at  all,"  said 
Caesar. 

"  Deed,  no,  man,"  laughed  Grannie,  "  considering  the  smart 
she  is  and  the  rasonable  good-looking." 

"  Hould  your  tongue,  woman ;  it'll  become  you  better,' 
said  Caesar. 

Philip  rose  to  go.  "You're  time  enough  yet,  sir,"  cried 
Caesar.     "  I  was  for  telling  you  of  a  job." 

Some  of  the  fishermen  of  Eamsey  had  been  over  on  Satur- 
day.    Their  season  was  a  failure,  and  they  were  loud  in  their 


114  THE  MANXMAN. 

protests  against  the  trawlers  who  were  destrojring  the  spawn. 
Caesar  had  sug-gested  a  conference  at  his  house  on  the  follow- 
ing Satui^ay  of  Ramsey  men  and  Peel  men,  and  recom- 
mended Philip  as  an  advocate  to  advise  with  them  as  to  the 
best  means  to  put  a  stop  to  the  enemies  of  the  herring. 
Philip  promised  to  be  there,  and  then  went  home  to  Auntie 
Nan. 

He  told  himself  on  the  way  that  Kate  was  completely 
above  her  surroundings,  and  capable  of  becoming  as  absolute 
a  lady  as  ever  lived  on  the  island,  without  a  sign  of  her  origin 
in  look  or  speech,  except  perhaps  the  rising  inflexion  in  her 
voice  \vhich  made  the  talk  of  the  true  Manxwoman  the  sweet- 
est thing  in  the  world  to  listen  to. 

Auntie  Nan  was  sitting  by  the  lamp,  reading  her  chapter 
before  going  to  bed. 

'*  Auntie,"  said  Philip,  ''  don't  you  think  the  tragedy  in  the 
life  of  father  was  accidental  ?  Due.  I  mean,  to  the  particular 
characters  of  grandfather  and  poor  mother  ?  Now,  if  the  one 
had  been  less  proud,  less  exclusive,  or  the  other  more  capable 
of  rising  with  her  husband " 

"  The  tragedy  w^as  deeper  than  that,  dear  ;  let  me  tell  you  a 
story,"  said  Auntie  Nan,  laying  dow^n  her  book.  "Three 
da,ys  after  your  father  left  Ballawhaine,  old  Maggie,  the  house- 
maid, came  to  my  side  at  supper  and  w^hispered  that  some  one 
w^as  wanting  me  in  the  garden.  It  was  Thomas.  Oh  dear  ! 
it  was  terrible  to  see  him  there,  that  ought  to  have  been  the 
heir  of  everything,  standing  like  a  stranger  in  the  dark  be- 
yond the  kitchen-door." 

''  Poor  father  !  "  said  Philip. 

" '  Whist,  girl,  come  out  of  the  light,'  he  whispered. 
'  There's  a  purse  with  twenty  pounds  odd  in  my  desk  upstairs  ; 
get  it.  Nan,  here's  the  key.'  I  knew  what  he  wanted  the 
money  for,  but  I  couldn't  help  it ;  I  got  him  the  purse  and 
put  ten  pounds  more  of  my  own  in  it.  'Must  you  do  it?'  I 
said.  '  I  must,'  he  answered.  'Your  father  says  everybody 
will  despise  you  for  this  marriage,'  I  said.  '  Better  they  should 
than  I  should  despise  myself,'  said  he.  '  But  he  calls  it  moral 
suicide,'  I  said.  '  That's  not  so  bad  as  moral  murder,'  he  re- 
plied. '  He  knows  the  island,'  I  urged,  '  and  so  do  you,  Tom, 
and  so  do  I,  and  nobody  can  hold  up  his  head  in  a  little  place 
like  this  after  a  marriage  like  that.'     'All  the  worse  for  the 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  115 

place,'  said  he,  '  if  it  stains  a  man's  honour  for  acting  honour- 
ably.'" 

''  Father  was  an  upright  man,"  interrupted  Philip.  "  There's 
no  question  about  it,  my  father  was  a  gentleman." 

" '  She  nmst  be  a  sweet,  good  girl,  and  worthy  of  you,  or 
you  wouldn't  marry  her,'  said  I  to  father  ;  '  but  are  you  sure 
that  you  will  be  happy  and  make  her  happy  ? '  '  We  shall 
have  each  other,  and  it  is  our  own  affair,'  said  father." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Philip. 

" '  But  if  there  is  a  difference  between  you  now,'  I  said, 
'will  it  be  less  when  you  are  the  great  man  we  hope  to  see 
you  some  day  V  'A  man  is  not  always  thinking  of  success,' 
he  answered. 

"  My  father  was  a  great  man  already.  Auntie,"  burst  out 
Philip. 

"  He  was  shaken  and  I  was  ashamed,  but  I  could  not  help 
it,  I  went  on.  '  Has  the  marriage  gone  too  far  ? '  I  asked. 
'  It  has  never  been  mentioned  between  us,'  said  he.  '  Your 
father  is  old,  and  can't  live  long,'  I  pleaded.  '  He  wants  me 
to  behave  like  a  scoundrel,'  he  answered.  'Why  that,  if  the 
girl  has  no  right  to  you  yet  ? '  I  said,  and  he  was  silent.  Then 
I  crept  up  and  looked  in  at  the  window.  '  See,'  I  whispered, 
'  he's  in  the  library.  We'll  take  him  by  surprise.  Come  ! ' 
It  was  not  to  be.  There  was  a  smell  of  tobacco  on  the  air 
and  the  thud  of  a  step  on  the  grass.  '  Who's  that  ? '  I  said. 
'W^ho  should  it  be,'  cried  father,  'but  the  same  spy  again. 
I'll  shake  the  life  out  of  him  yet  as  a  terrier  would  a  rat.  No 
use,  girl,'  he  shouted  hoarsely,  facing  towards  the  darkness, 
'  they're  driving  me  to  destruction.'  '  Hush  ! '  I  said,  and  cov- 
ered his  mouth  with  my  hands,  and  his  breath  was  hot,  like 
fire.  But  it  was  useless.  He  was  married  three  days  after- 
wards." 

Philip  resolved  to  see  Kate  no  more.  He  must  go  to  Sulby 
on  Saturday  to  meet  the  fishermen,  but  that  would  be  a  busi- 
ness visit ;  he  need  not  i)rolong  it  into  a  friendly  one.  All 
the  week  through  he  felt  as  if  his  heart  would  break  ;  but  he 
resolved  to  conquer  his  feelings.  Pie  pitied  himself  some- 
what, and  that  helped  him  to  rise  above  his  error. 


115  THE   MANXMAN. 


XV. 


On  Saturday  night  he  was  early  at  Sulby.  The  bar-room 
vras  thronged  with  fishermen  in  guernseys,  sea-boots,  and 
sou '-westers.  They  were  all  on  their  feet  together,  twisting 
about  like  great  congers  on  the  quay,  drinking  a  little  and 
smoking  a  great  deal,  thumping  the  table,  and  all  talking  at 
once.  "  How've  you  done,  Billy  ? '' — *'  Enough  to  keep  away 
the  divil  and  the  coroner,  and  that's  about  all." — "Where's 
Tom  Dug  ? "— "  Grone  to  Austrilla."— "  Is  Jimmy  over  to-day?  "^ 
— ''  He's  away  to  Cleveland.'' — ''  Gough,  bless  me,  every  Manx 
boy  seems  to  be  going  foreign.'" — ''That's  where  we'll  all  be 
after  long  and  last,  if  we  don't  stop  these  southside  trawlers." 

Piiilij)  went  in  and  was  received  with  goodwill  and  rough 
courtesy,  but  no  man  abated  a  jot  of  bis  freedom  of  action  or 
liberty  of  speech,  and  the  thumping  and  shouting  were  as 
loud  as  before.  ''  Appeal  to  the  Eeceiver-General." — "  Chut  ! 
an  ould  woman  with  a  face  winking  at  you  like  a  roast 
potato." — "Will  we  go  to  the  Bishop,  then?"— "A  white- 
washed Methodist  with  a  soul  the  size  of  a  dried  pea." — "The 
Governor  is  the  proper  pei-son.''  said  Philip  above  the  hub- 
bub, "  and  he  is  to  visit  Peel  Castle  next  Saturday  aftei'noon 
about  the  restorations.  Let  every  Manx  fisherman  who  thinks 
the  trawl-boats  are  enemies  of  the  fish  be  there  that  day. 
Then  lay  your  complaint  before  the  man  whose  duty  it  is  to 
inquire  into  all  such  grievances  ;  and  if  you  want  a  spokes- 
man, I'm  ready  to  speak  for  you."— "Bravo  I"— "That's  the 
ticket  I "  " 

Tlien  the  meeting  was  at  an  end  ;  the  men  went  on  with 
stories  of  the  week's  fishing,  stories  of  smugglers,  stories  of 
the  Swaddlers  (the  Wesleyans),  stories  of  the  totalers  (teeto- 
tallers), and  Philip  made  for  the  door.  When  he  got  there, 
he  began  to  reflect  that,  being  in  the  house,  he  ought  to  leave 
good-night  with  Caesar  and  Grannie.  Hardly  decent  not  to 
do  so.  No  use  hurting  people's  feelings.  Might  as  well  be 
civil.  Cost  nothing  anyway.  Thus  an  overpowering  com- 
pulsioji  in  the  disguise  of  courtesy  drew  him  again  into  Kate's 
company  ;  but  to-morrow  he  would  take  a  new  turn. 

"  Proud  to  see  you,  Mr.  Philip,"  said  Caesar. 

"  The  water's  playing  in  the  kettle  ;  make  Mr.  Philip  a  cup 
of  tay.  Nancy,"  said  Grannie.     Ca?sar  was  sitting  back  to  the 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  n^ 

partition,  pretending  to  read  out  of  a  big*  Bible  on  his  knees, 
but  listening  with  both  ears  and  open  mouth  to  the  profane 
stories  being  told  in  the  bar-room.  Kate  was  not  in  the 
kitchen,  but  an  open  book,  face  dow^nwards,  lay  on  the  chair 
by  the  turf  closet. 

"  What's  this  ? "  said  Philip.  "  A  French  exercise-book  ! 
Whoever  can  it  belong  to  here  ? " 

"  Aw,  Kirry,  of  coorse,"  said  Grannie.  "  and  sticking  that 
close  to  it  of  an  everin  that  you  haven't  a  chance  to  put  a 
word  on  her." 

''  Vanity,  sir,  vanity,  all  vanity,"  said  Caesar  ;  and  again 
he  listened  hard. 

Philip's  eyes  began  to  blink.  "  Teaching  herself  French, 
is  she  ?    Has  she  been  doing  it  long.  Grannie  ? " 

"  Long  enough,  sir,  three  years  or  better,  since  poor  Pete 
went  away  maybe  ;  and  at  the  books  for  ever,  grammars  and 
tex'  books,  and  I  don't  know  what." 

Caesar,  with  his  ear  at  the  glass,  made  an  impatient  gesture 
for  silence,  but  Grannie  continued,  "  I  don't  know  what  for 
people  should  be  larning  themselves  foreign  languages  at  all. 
For  my  part,  there  isn't  one  of  them  bates  the  Manx  itself  for 
plainness.  And  aren't  we  reading,  when  the  Lord  wanted  to 
bring  confusion  on  Noah  and  his  disobedient  sons  and  grand- 
sons at  going  up  the  Tower  of  Babel,  he  made  them  spake  dif- 
ferent tongues  ? " 

"  Good  thing  too,"  snapped  Caesar,  "  if  every  poor  man  was 
bound  to  carry  his  wife  up  with  him." 

Philip's  eyes  were  streaming,  and,  unobserved,  he  put  the 
lesson-book  to  his  lips.  He  had  guessed  its  secret.  The  girl 
was  making  herself  worthy  of  him.     God  bless  her  ! 

Kate  came  downstairs  in  the  dark  dress  and  white  collar 
of  Sunday  night.  She  saw  Philip  putting  down  the  book, 
lowered  her  head  and  blushed,  took  up  the  volume,  and  smug- 
gled it  out  of  sight.  Then  Caesar's  curiosity  conquered  his 
propriety  and  he  ventured  into  the  bar-room,  Grannie  came 
and  \Yent  between  the  counter  and  the  fishermen,  Nancy 
clicked  about  from  dairy  to  door,  and  Kate  and  Philip  were 
left  alone. 

"You  were  wrong  the  other  night,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  thinking  it  over,  and  you  were  quite,  quite  wrong." 

"So?" 


118  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  If  a  man  marries  a  woman  beneath  him,  he  stoops  to  her, 
and  to  stoop  to  her  is  to  pity  her,  and  to  pity  her  is  to  be 
ashamed  of  her,  and  to  be  ashamed  of  her  would  kill  her. 
So  you  are  wrong*." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Philip. 

''  Yes,"  said  Kate,  '"  but  do  you  know^  what  it  ought  to  be  ? 
The  iroman  otight  to  marry  beneath  herself,  and  the  man 
above  himself  ;  then  as  much  as  the  woman  descends,  the 
man  rises,  and  so don't  j'ou  see  ? " 

She  faltered  and  stopped,  and  Philip  said,  "Aren't  you 
talking  nonsense,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  " 

Kate  pretended  to  be  angry  at  the  rebuff,  and  pouted  her 
lips,  but  her  eyes  w^ere  beaming. 

"  There  is  neither  above  nor  below  where  there  is  real 
liking,"  said  Philip.  '*  If  you  like  any  one,  and  she  is  neces- 
sary to  your  life,  that  is  the  sign  of  your  natural  equality. 
It  is  God's  sign,  and  all  the  rest  is  only  man  s  book-keeping." 

''You  mean,"  said  Kate,  trying  to  keep  a  grave  mouth, 
"  you  mean  that  if  a  woman  belongs  to  some  one  she  can  like, 
and  some  one  belongs  to  her,  that  is  being  equal,  and  every- 
thing else  is  nothing  ?     Eh  ? " 

"Why  not?"  said  Philip. 

It  was  music  to  her,  but  she  wagged  her  head  solemnly 
and  said,  "  I'm  sure  you're  wrong,  Philip,  I  am,  though. 
Yes,  indeed  I  am.  But  it's  no  use  arguing.  Not  against  you. 
Only " 

The  glorious  choir  of  love-birds  in  her  bosom  were  singing 
so  loud  that  she  could  say  no  more,  and  the  irresistible  one 
had  his  way.  After  a  while,  she  stuffed  something  into  the 
fire. 

"What's  that?"  said  Philip. 

"  Oh,  nothing."  she  answered  brightly. 

It  was  the  French  exercise-book. 


XVI. 

Philip  went  home  rebelling  against  his  father's  fate.  It 
was  accidental  ;  it  was  inevitable  only  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 
But  perdition  to  the  place  where  a  man  could  not  marry  the 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  II9 

woman  he  loved  if  she  chanced  to  be  born  in  the  manner  in- 
stead of  the  stable  loft.  Perdition  to  the  land  where  a  man 
could  not  live  unless  he  was  a  skunk  or  a  cur.  Thank  God 
the  world  was  wide. 

That  night  he  said  to  Auntie  Nan,  "  Auntie,  why  didn't 
father  go  away  when  he  found  the  tide  setting  so  strongly 
against  him  ? " 

"  He  always  meant  to,  but  he  never  could,"  said  Auntie 
Nan.  "A  woman  isn't  like  a  mau,  ready  to  pitch  her  tent 
here  to  day  and  there  to-morrow.  We're  more  like  cats,  dear, 
and  cling  to  the  places  we're  used  to,  if  they're  only  ruins  of 
tumbling  stones.  Your  motlier  wasn't  happy  in  the  Isle  of 
Man,  but  she  wouldn't  leave  it.  Your  father  wouldn't  go 
without  her,  and  then  there  was  the  child.  He  was  here  for 
weal  or  woe,  for  life  or  death.  When  he  married  his  vvife  he 
made  the  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  island  as  to  a  rock. " 

■"  It  wouldn't  be  like  that  with  Kate,"  thought  Philip.  But 
did  Auntie  know  anything  ?  Had  somebody  told  her  ?  Was 
she  warning  him  ?  On  Sunday  night,  on  the  way  home  from 
church,  she  talked  of  his  father  again. 

"  He  came  to  see  at  last  that  it  wasn't  altogether  his  own 
affair  either,"  she  said.  ''It  was  the  night  he  died.  Your 
mother  had  been  unwell  and  father  had  sent  for  me.  It  was 
a  dark  night,  and  late,  very  late,  and  they  brought  me  down  the 
hill  from  Lewaige  Cottage  with  a  lantern.  Father  was  sinking, 
but  he  would  get  out  of  bed.  We  were  alone  together  then, 
he  and  I,  except  for  you,  and  you  were  asleep  in  your  cot  by 
the  window.  He  made  straight  for  it,  and  struggled  dovrn  on 
his  knees  at  its  side  by  help  of  the  curtains.  '  Listen,'  he  said, 
trying  to  whisper,  though  he  could  not,  for  his  poor  throat 
was  making  noises.  You  were  catching  your  breath,  as  if 
sobbing  in  your  sleep.  '  Poor  little  boy,  he's  dreaming,'  said 
I  ;  'let  me  turn  him  on  his  side.'  'It's  not  that,'  said  father  ; 
'  he  went  to  sleep  in  trouble.' " 

"  I  remember  it,  Auntie,"  said  Philip.  "  Perhaps  he  had 
been  trying  to  tell  me  something." 

"  '  My  boy,  my  son,  forgive  me,  I  have  sinned  against  you,' 
he  said,  and  he  tried  to  reach  over  the  cot  rail  and  put  his 
lips  to  your  forehead,  but  his  poor  head  shook  like  palsy 
and  bobbed  down  into  your  little  face.  I  remember  you 
rubbed  your  nose  with  your  little  fist,  but  you  did  not  waken. 


120  THE  MANXMAN. 

Then  I  helped  him  back  to  bed,  and  the  table  with  the  medi- 
cine glasses  jiDgled  by  the  trembling  cf  his  other  hand.  '  It's 
dark,  all,  all  dark,  Nannie,'  he  said,  '  sure  some  angel  will 
bring  me  light,'  and  I  was  so  simple  I  thought  he  meant  the 
lamp,  for  it  was  dying  down,  and  I  lit  a  candle." 

Philip  went  about  his  work  that  week  as  if  the  spirit  of  his 
father  were  hovering  over  him,  warning  him  when  awake  in 
words  of  love  and  pleading,  crying  to  him  in  his  sleep  in 
tones  of  anger  and  command,  "  Stand  back  ;  you  are  at  the 
edge  of  the  precipice." 

Nevertheless  his  soul  rose  in  rebellion  against  this  league 
as  of  the  past  and  the  dead.  It  was  founded  in  vanity,  in  the 
desire  for  glory  and  success.  Only  let  a  man  renounce  the 
w  orld  and  all  that  the  world  can  give,  and  he  can  be  true  to 
himself,  to  his  heart's  impulse,  to  his  honour,  and  to  Ms  love. 
He  would  deliberate  no  longer.  He  despised  himself  for  de- 
liberating. If  it*vas  the  world  against  Kate,  let  the  world  go 
to  perdition. 
• 

XVII. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  he  was  at  Peel.  It  was  a  beautiful 
day  ;  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  bay  was  blue  and  flat  and 
quiet.  The  tide  was  down,  the  harbour  was  empty  of  water, 
but  full  of  smacks  with  hanging  sails  and  hammocks  of  nets 
and  lines  of  mollags  (bladders)  up  to  the  mast  heads.  A  flight 
of  seagulls  were  fishing  in  the  mud,  and  swirling  through  the 
brown  wings  of  the  boats  and  crying.  A  flag  floated  over  the 
ruins  of  the  castle,  the  church-bells  were  ringing,  and  the 
harbour-masters  were  abroad  in  best  blue  and  gold  but- 
tons. 

On  the  tilting-ground  of  the  castle  the  fishermen  had 
gathered,  sixteen  hundred  strong.  There  were  travelers 
among  them,  Manx,  Irish,  and  English,  prowling  through  the 
crowd,  and  scooping  up  the  odds  and  ends  of  gossip  as  their 
boats  on  the  bottom  scraped  up  the  little  fish.  Occasionally 
they  were  observed  by  the  herring-fishers,  and  then  there  were 
high  words  and  free  fights.  '*  Taking  a  creep  round  from 
Port  le  Murrey  are  you,  Dan  ?"— "Thought  I'd  put  a  sight  on 
Peel  to-day." — "Bad  for  your  complexion,  though;  might 
turn  it  red,  I'm  thinking.'' — "Strek  me  with  blood  will  you  ? 


BOY  AND  GIKL.  121 

I'd  just  like  you  to  strek  me,  begough.  I'd  put  a  Union  Jack 
on  your  face  as  big  as  a  griddle." 

The  Governor  came,  an  elderly  man,  with  a  formidable  air, 
an  aquiline  nose,  and  cheeks  pitted  with  small-j^ox.  Philip 
introduced  the  fishermen  and  told  their  grievance.  Trawling 
destroyed  immature  fish,  and  so  contributed  to  the  failure  of 
the  fisheries.  They  asked  for  power  to  stop  it  in  the  bays  of 
the  island,  and  within  three  miles  of  the  coast. 

"  Then  draft  me  a  bill  with  that  object,  Mr.  Christian," 
said  the  Governor,  and  the  meeting  ended  with  cheers  for  His 
Excellency,  shouts  for  Philip,  and  mutterings  of  contempt 
from  the  trawlers.  "  Didn't  think  there  was  a  man  on  the 
island  could  spake  like  it.'' — "But  hasn't  your  fancy-man 
been  rubbing  his  back  agen  the  college  ?  " — "  I'd  take  lil  tacks 
home  if  I  was  yourself,  Dan."—"  Drink  much  more  and  it'll 
be  two  feet  deep  inside  of  you." 

Philip  was  hurrying  away  under  the  crumbling  portcullis, 
when  a  deputation  of  the  fishermen  approached  him.  "  What 
are  we  owing  you,  Mr.  Christian  ?"  asked  their  spokesman. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Philip. 

"  We  thank  you,  sir,  and  you'll  be  hearing  from  us  again. 
Meanw^hile,  a  word  if  you  plaze,  sir  ? " 

"  What  is  it,  men  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  When  a  young  man  can  spake  like  yonder,  it's  a  gift,  sir, 
and  he's  houlding  it  in  trust  for  something.  The  ould  island's 
wanting  a  big  man  ter'ble  bad,  and  it  hasn't  seen  the  like 
since  the  days  of  your  own  grandfather.  Good  everin,  and 
thank  you — good  everin  ! " 

With  that  the  rough  fellows  dismissed  him  at  the  ferry 
steps,  and  he  hastened  to  the  market-place,  where  he  had  left 
his  horse.  On  putting  up,  he  had  seen  Caesar's  gig  tipped  up 
in  the  stable-yard.  It  was  now  gone,  and,  without  asking 
questions,  he  mounted  and  made  towards  Ramsey. 

He  took  the  old  road  by  the  cliffs,  and  as  he  cantered  and 
galloped,  he  hummed,  and  whistled,  and  sang,  and  slashed  the 
trees  to  keep  himself  from  thinking.  At  the  crest  of  the  hill 
he  sighted  the  gig  in  front,  and  at  Port  Lady  he  came  up  with 
it.     Kate  was  driving  and  Caesar  was  nodding  and  dozing. 

"You've  been  having  a  great  day,  Mr.  Christian,"  said 
Caesar.  "  Wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  myself  ;  but  the 
heart  of  man  is  decaitful,  sir,  and  desperately  wicked.     I'm 


122  THE  MANXMAN. 

not  one  to  clap  people  in  the  castle  and  keep  tliem  from  sea 
for  debts  of  drink,  and  they're  taking  a  mane  advantage.  Not 
a  penny  did  I  get  to-day,  sir,  and  many  a  yellow  sovereign 
owing  to  me.  If  I  was  like  some — now  there's  that  Tom  Raby, 
Glen  Meay.  He  saw  Dan  the  Spy  coming  from  the  total 
meeting  last  night.  '  Taken  the  pledge,  Dan  '{ '  says  he.  '  Yes, 
I  have,"  says  Dan.  'I'm  plazed  to  hear  it,'  says  he  ;  'come  in 
and  I'll  give  you  a  good  glass  of  rum  for  it.'  And  Dan  took 
the  rum  for  taking  the  pledge,  and  there  he  was  as  drunk  as 
Mackilley  in  the  castle  this  morning."' 

Philip  listened  as  he  rode,  and  a  half-melancholy,  half- 
mocking  expression  played  on  his  face.  He  was  thinking  of 
his  grandfather,  old  Iron  Christian,  brought  into  relation  with 
his  mother's  father,  Capt.  Billy  Ballure,  of  the  dainty  gentil- 
ity of  Auntie  Nan  and  the  unctuous  vulgarity  of  the  father  of 
Kate. 

Caesar  grumbled  himself  to  sleep  at  last,  and  then  Philip 
Tvas  alone  with  the  girl,  and  riding  on  her  side  of  the  gig. 
She  was  quiet  at  fii'st,  but  a  joyous  smile  lit  up  her  face. 

"  I  was  in  the  castle,  too,'"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  pride. 

The  sun  went  down  over  the  Avaters  behind  them,  and  cast 
their  brown  shadows  on  the  road  in  front  ;  tlie  twilight  deep- 
ened, the  night  came  down,  the  moon  rose  in  their  faces,  and 
the  stars  appeared.  They  could  hear  the  tramp  of  the  horses' 
hoofs,  the  roll  of  the  gig  wheels,  the  wash  and  boom  of  the 
sea  on  their  left,  and  the  cry  Of  the  sea-fowl  somewhere  be- 
neath. The  loveliness  and  warmth  of  the  autumn  night  stole 
over  Kate,  and  she  began  to  keep  up  a  flow  of  merry  chatter. 

''  I  can  tell  all  the  sounds  of  the  fields  in  the  darloiess.  By 
the  moonlight  ?  No  ;  but  with  my  eyes  shut,  if  you  like. 
Now  try  me.'" 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  went  on :  "  Do  you  hear  that — that 
patter  like  soft  rain  ?  That's  oats  nearly  ripe  for  harvest. 
Do  you  hear  that,  then — that  pit-a-pat,  like  sheep  going  by  on 
the  street  ?  That"s  wheat,  just  ready.  And  there — that  whiss, 
whiss,  whiss  ?     That's  barley."' 

She  opened  her  eyes:  ''Don't  you  think  I'm  very  clever  ?" 

Philip  felt  an  impulse  to  lean  over  the  wheel  and  put  his 
arms  about  the  girl's  neck. 

"  Take  care,"  she  cried  merrily;  "your  horse  is  shying.'' 

He  gazed  at  her  face,  lit  up  in  the  white  moonlight.    "  How 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  123 

bright  and  happy  you  seem,  Kate  ! ''  he  said  with  a  shiver  ; 
and  then  he  laid  one  hand  on  the  gig  rail. 

Her  eyelids  quivered,  her  mouth  twitched,  and  she  an- 
swered gaily,  ''  Why  not  ?  Aren't  you  ?  You  ought  to  he, 
you  know.  How  glorious  to  succeed  ?  It  means  so  much — 
new  things  to  see,  new  houses  to  visit,  new  pleasures,  new 
friends " 

Her  joyous  toues  broke  dov^^n  in  a  nervous  laugh  at  that 
last  word,  and  he  replied,  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  That  m.ay  be 
true  of  the  big  world  over  yonder,  Kate,  but  it  isn't  so  in  a 
little  island  like  ours.  To  succeed  here  is  like  going  up  the 
tower  of  Castle  Rushen  with  some  one  locking  the  doors  on 
the  stone  steps  behind  you.  At  every  storey  the  room  becomes 
less,  until  at  the  top  you  have  only  space  to  stand  alone. 
Then,  if  you  should  ever  come  down  again,  there's  but  one 
way  for  you— over  the  battlements  with  a  crash." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  startled  eyes,  and  his  own  were 
large  and  full  of  trouble.  They  were  going  through  Kirk 
Michael  by  the  house  of  the  Deemster,  who  was  ill,  and  both 
drew  rein  and  went  slowly.  Some  acacias  in  the  garden 
slashed  their  broadswords  in  the  night  air,  and  a  windmill 
behind  stood  out  against  the  moon  like  a  gigantic  bat.  The 
black  shadow  of  the  horses  stepped  beside  them. 

"  Are  you  feeling  lonely  to-night,  Philip  ? " 

"  I'm  feeling " 

"Yes?" 

"  I'm  feeling  as  if  the  dead  and  the  living,  the  living  and 
the  dead — oh,  Kate,  Kate,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  feeling." 

She  put  her  band  caressingly  on  the  top  of  his  hand. 
''Never  mind,  dear,"  she  said  softly;  "/'//  stand  by  you. 
You  sha'n't  be  alone. ''^ 


XVIII. 

It  was  midday,  then,  on  the  tropic  seas,  and  the  horizon 
was  closing  in  with  clouds  as  of  blood  and  vapours  of  stilling 
heat.  A  steamship  was  rolling  in  a  heavy  swell,  under  winds 
that  were  as  hot  as  gusts  from  an  open  furnace.  Under  its 
decks  a  man  lay  in  an  atmosphere  of  fever  and  the  sickening 
odour  of  bandages  and  stale  air.  Above  the  throb  of  the  en- 
gines and  the  rattle  of  the  rudder  chf  in  he  heard  a  step  going 
9 


12^  THE   MAXXMAX. 

by  liLS  open  door,  and  he  called  in  a  feeble  voice  that  was 
cheerful  and  almost  merry,  but  yet  the  voice  of  a  homesick 
boy — 

"  How  many  days  from  home,  engineer  ?  " 

"Not  more  than  twenty  now." 

''Put  on  steam,  mate  ;  put  it  on.  Wish  I  could  be  skip- 
ping below  and  stoking  up  for  you  like  mad." 

As  the  ship  rolled,  the  green  reflection  of  the  water  and  the 
red  light  of  the  sky  shot  alternately  through  the  port-hole  and 
lit  up  the  berth  like  firelight  flashing  in  a  dead  house. 

''Ask  the  boys  if  they'll  carry  me  on  deck,  sir — just  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air." 

The  sailors  came  and  carried  him.  "  You  can  do  anything 
for  a  chap  like  that." 

The  big  sun  was  straight  overhead,  weighing  down  on  their 
shouldei*s,  and  there  was  no  shelter  anywhere,  for  the  shad- 
ows were  under  foot. 

"  Slip  out  the  sails,  lads,  and  let's  fly  along.  Wish  I  could 
tumble  up  the  rigging  myself  and  look  out  from  the  yards 
same  as  a  gull,  but  I'm  only  an  ould  parrot  chained  down  to 
my  stick." 

They  left  him,  and  he  gazed  out  on  the  cii'cle  of  water  and 
the  vapour  shaking  over  it  like  a  veil.  The  palpitating  air 
was  making  the  circle  smaller  every  minute,  but  the  vrorld 
seem  cruelly  large  for  all  that.  He  was  looking  beyond  the 
visible  things  ;  he  was  listening  deeper  than  the  wash  of  the 
waves  ;  he  was  dreaming,  dreaming.  Apparitions  were  float- 
ing in  the  heat-clouds  over  him.  Home  !  Its  voices  whispered 
at  his  ear,  its  face  peered  into  his  eyes.  But  the  hot  winds 
came  up  and  danced  round  him  ;  the  air.  the  sea,  the  sky,  the 
whole  world,  the  utter  universe  seemed  afire  ;  his  eyes  rolled 
upwards  to  his  brow  ;  he  almost  choked  and  fainted. 

"  Carry  him  below,  poor  fellow  !  He's  got  a  good  heart  to 
think  he'll  ever  see  home  again.     He'll  never  see  it." 

Half-way  down  the  companion-ladder  he  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  look  of  despair.     Would  God  let  him  die  after  all  ? 


BOY    AND   GiKL.  ^25 


XIX. 


Kate  began  to  feel  that  Philip  was  slipping  away  from 
her.  He  loved  her,  she  was  sure  of  that,  but  something*  was 
dragging  them  apart.  Her  great  enemy  was  Philip's  success. 
This  was  rapid  and  constant.  She  wanted  to  rejoice  in  it ; 
she  struggled  to  feel  glad  and  happy,  and  even  proud.  But 
that  was  impossible.  Ii  was  ungenerous,  it  was  mean,  but  she 
could  not  help  it — she  resented  every  fresh  mark  of  Philip's 
advancement. 

The  world  that  was  carrying  Philip  up  was  carrying  him 
away.  She  would  be  left  far  below.  It  would  be  presumptu- 
ous to  lift  her  eyes  to  him.  Visions  came  to  her  of  Philip  in 
other  scenes  than  her  scenes,  among  ladies  in  drawing-rooms, 
beautiful,  educated,  clever,  able  to  talk  of  many  things  beyond 
her  knowledge.  Then  she  looked  at  herself,  and  felt  vexed 
with  her  hands,  made  coarse  by  the  w^ork  of  the  farm  ;  at  her 
father,  and  felt  ashamed  of  the  moleskin  clothes  he  wore  in 
the  mill  ;  at  her  home,  and  flushed  deep  at  the  thought  of  the 
bar-room. 

It  was  small  and  pitiful,  she  knew  that,  and  she  shuddered 
under  the  sense  of  being  a  meaner-hearted  girl  than  she  had 
ever  thought.  If  she  could  do  something  of  herstlf  to  coun- 
teract the  difference  made  by  Philip's  success,  if  she  could 
raise  hei*self  a  little,  she  would  be  content  to  keep  behind,  to 
let  him  go  fii'st,  to  see  him  forge  ahead  of  her,  and  of  every- 
body, being  only  in  sight  and  within  reach.  But  she  could  do 
nothing  except  writhe  and  rebel  against  the  network  of  fe- 
male custom,  or  tear  herself  in  the  thorny  thicket  of  female 
morals. 

Harvest  had  begun  :  half  the  crop  of  Gienmooar  had  been 
saved,  a  third  was  in  stook.  and  then  a  wet  day  had  come  and 
stopped  all  work  in  the  fields.  On  this  wet  day,  in  the  preach- 
ing-room of  the  mill,  amid  forms  and  desks,  wdth  the  cranch 
of  the  stones  from  below,  the  wash  of  the  w^heel  from  outside, 
and  the  rush  of  the  uncrushed  corn  from  above,  Caesar  sat 
rolling  sugganes  for  the  stackyard,  with  Kate  working  the 
twister,  and  going  backward  before  him,  and  half  his  neigh- 
bours sheltering  from  the  rain  and  looking  on. 

"  Thought  I'd  have  a  sight  up  and  tell  you,"  said  Kelly,  the 
postman. 


126  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  What's  the  news.  Mr.  Kelly  ? "  said  Csssar. 

"  The  ould  Dempster's  dying,"  said  Kelly. 

''You  don't  say  V'  said  everybody. 

"  Well,  as  good  as  dying  at  ten  minutes  wanting  eight 
o'clock  this  morning."  said  the  postman. 

'•  The  drink's  been  too  heavy  for  the  man,"  said  John,  the 
clerk. 

"Wine  is  a  serpent,  and  strong  drink  a  mocker,"  said 
Caesar. 

*'  Who'll  be  the  new  Dempster,  Mr.  Niplightly,"  said 
JoDaique. 

''Hm  1"  snuffled  the  constable,  easing  his  helmet,  "dat's  a 
serious  matter,  Mr.  Jelly.  We'll  dake  our  time — we'll  dake 
our  time." 

"  Chut  !     There's  only  oue  man  for  it,"  said  Csesar. 

"Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no,"  said  the  constable. 

"Do  you  mane  the  young  Ballawhaine,  Mr.  Cregeen?" 
said  the  postman. 

"  Do  I  mane  fiddlesticks  I "  said  Caesar. 

"  Well,  the  man's  father  is  at  the  Govenar  reg'lar,  they're 
telling  me,"  said  Kelly,  "  and  Ross  is  this,  and  Ross  is  that " 

"Every  dog  praises  his  own  tail."  said  Casar. 

"I'm  not  denying  it,  the  man  isn't  fit — he  has  sold  himseK 
to  the  devil,  that's  a  fact " 

"No,  he  hasn't,"  said  Caesar,  "the  devil  gets  the  like  for 
nothing." 

"  But  he's  a  Christian  for  all,  and  the  Christians  have  been 
Dempsters  time  out  of  time " 

"  Is  he  the  only  Christian  that's  in,  then,  eh  ? "  said  Caesar. 
"Go  on,  Kate  :  twist  away." 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Philip  ?  Aw,  I'm  saying  nothing  agaiiist  Mr. 
Philip,"  said  the  postman. 

"You  wouldn't  get  lave  in  this  house,  anyway,"  said 
Caesar. 

"Aw,  a  right  gentleman  and  no  pride  at  all,"  said  the  post- 
man. "  As  free  and  free  with  a  poor  man,  and  no  making 
aisy  either.  I've  nothing  agen  him  myself.  No,  but  a  bit 
young  for  a  Dempster,  isn't  he  ?  Just  a  taste  young,  as  the 
man  said,  eh  ? " 

"  Older  than  the  young  Ballawhaine,  anyway,"  said  John, 
the  clerk. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  127 

"Aw,  make  him  Dempster,  then.  I'm  raising-  no  objec- 
tion," said  Mr.  Kelly. 

''  Go  on,  girl.  Does  that  twister  want  oiling  ?  Feed  it, 
woman,  feed  it,"  said  Caesar. 

"  His  father  should  have  been  Dempster  before  him,"  said 
John,  the  clerk.  "  Would  have  been  too,  only  he  went  crooked 
when  he  married  on  yonder  woman.  She's  through  though, 
and  what  more  natural " 

The  rope  stopped  again,  and  Kate's  voice,  hard  and  thick, 
came  from  the  farther  end  of  it.     "  His  mother  being  dead,  eh  ? " 

"  It  was  the  mother  that  done  for  the  father,  anyway,"  said 
the  clerk. 

"  Consequently,"  said  Kate,  "  he  is  to  praise  Grod  that  his 
mother  is  gone  ! " 

"  That  girl  wants  a  doctor,"  muttered  Jonaique. 

"The  man  couldn't  drag  the  woman  up  after  him,"  began 
the  clerk.     "  It's  always  the  way " 

"  Just  that,"  said  Kate,  with  bitter  irony. 

"  Of  coorse,  I'm  not  for  saying  it  w^as  the  woman's  fault 
entirely " 

"Don't  apologise  for  her,"  said  Kate.  "She's  gone  and 
forgotten,  and  that  being  so,  her  son  has  now  a  chance  of  be- 
ing Deemster. " 

"  So  he  has,"  shouted  Caesar,  "  and  not  second  Dempster 
only,  but  first  Dempster  itself  in  time,  and  go  on  with  the 
twister." 

Kate  laughed  loudly,  and  cried,  "  Why  don't  you  keep  it 
up  v/hen  your  hand's  in  ?    First  Deemster  Christian,  and  then 

Sir  Philip  Christian,  and  then  Lord  Christian,  and  then • 

But  you're  talking  nonsense,  and  you're  a  pack  of  tattlers. 
There's  no  thought  of  making  Philip  Christian  a  Deemster, 
and  no  hope  of  it  and  no  chance  of  it,  and  I  trust  there  never 
will  be." 

So  saying,  she  flung  the  tv/ister  on  the  floor  and  rushed  out 
of  the  mill,  sobbing  hysterically. 

"  Dr.  Clucas  is  wonderful  for  females  and  young  girls,"  said 
Jonaique. 

"It's  that  Ross  again,"  muttered  Caesar. 

"  And  hell  have  her  yet,"  said  Kelly,  the  postman. 

"  I'd  see  her  dead  first,"  said  Caesar.  "  It  would  be  the 
jaws  of  hell  and  the  mouth  of  Satan." 


12S  THE  MANXMAN. 

That  she  who  loved  Philip  to  distraction  should  be  the  first 
to  abuse  and  defame  him  was  agony  near  to  madness,  for 
Kate  knew  where  she  stood.  It  was  not  merely  that  Philip's 
success  was  separating  them,  not  merely  that  the  conventions 
of  life,  its  usages,  its  manners,  and  its  customs  were  jDutting 
worlds  between  them.  The  pathos  of  the  girl's  position  was 
no  accidental  thing.  It  was  a  deeper,  older  matter  ;  it  was 
the  same  to-day  as  it  had  been  yesterday  and  would  be  to-mor- 
row ;  it  began  in  the  garden  of  Eden  and  would  go  on  till  the 
last  woman  died — it  was  the  natural  inferiority  of  woman  in 
relation  to  man. 

She  had  the  same  passions  as  Philip,  and  was  moved  by 
the  same  love.  But  she  was  not  free.  Philip  alone  was  free. 
She  had  to  wait  on  Philip's  will,  on  Philip's  word.  She  saw 
Philip  slipping  away  from  he.r,  but  she  could  not  snatch  at 
him  before  he  was  gone  :  she  could  not  speak  fii*st  ;  she  could 
not  say,  *'  I  love  you  :  stay  with  me  ! "  She  was  a  woman, 
only  a  woman  1     How  wretched  to  be  a  woman  !     How  cruel  ! 

But  ah  I  the  dear  delicious  thought  I  It  came  stealing  up 
into  her  heart  when  the  red  riot  was  nearly  killing  her. 
\Yhat  a  glorious  thing  it  was  to  be  a  woman  after  all  !  What 
a  powerful  thing  !  What  a  lovely  and  beloved  thing  !  To 
rule  the  king,  being  the  slave,  was  sweeter  than  to  be  the  king 
himself.  That  was  woman's  place.  It  was  where  heaven 
itself  had  put  her  from  the  beginning  until  now.  What 
weapons  had  it  given  her  I  Beauty  !  Charm  !  Love  !  The 
joy  of  it  I  To  be  the  weak  and  overcome  the  strong  !  To  be 
nothing  in  the  battle  of  life,  and  yet  conqueror  of  all  the 
world  I 

Kate  vowed  that,  come  what  v\-ould,  Philip  should  never 
leav^e  her. 


XX. 

On  the  day  when  the  last  of  the  hai*vest  is  saved  in  the  Isle 
of  Man.  the  farmer  gives  a  supper  to  his  farm-people,  and  to 
the  neighbours  who  have  helped  him  to  cut  and  house  it. 
This  supper,  attended  by  simple  and  beautiful  ceremonies,  is 
called  the  Mel  Hah.  The  parson  may  be  asked  to  it,  and  if 
there  is  a  friend  of  position  and  free  manners,  he  also  is  in- 
vited.    Caesar's  Melliah  fell  within  a  week  of  the  rope-making 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  129 

in  the  mill,  and  partly  to  punish  Kate,  partly  to  honour  him- 
self, he  asked  Philip  to  be  present. 

•'  He'll  come,"  thought  Kate  with  secret  joy,  "  I'm  sure  he'll 
come; "  and  in  this  certainty,  when  the  day  of  Melliah  came, 
she  went  up  to  her  room  to  dress  for  it.  She  was  to  win 
Philip  that  day  or  lose  him  for  ever.  It  was  to  he  her  trial 
day — she  knew  that.  She  was  to  fight  as  for  her  life,  and 
gain  or  lose  everything.  It  was  to  he  a  hattle  royal  between 
all  the  conventions  of  life,  all  the  network  of  female  custom^ 
all  the  inferiority  of  a  woman's  position  as  God  himself  had 
suffered  it  to  be,  and  one  poor  girl. 

She  began  to  cry,  but  struggling  with  her  sadness,  she 
dashed  the  tears  from  her  glistening  eyes.  What  was  there 
to  cry  about  ?  Philip  wanted  to  love  her,  and  he  should,  he 
must. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  not  yet  more  than  two  o'clock. 
Nancy  had  washed  up  the  dinner  things,  the  fire-irons  were 
polished,  the  boots  and  spare  whips  were  put  up  on  the  lath, 
the  old  hats  like  lines  of  heads  on  a  city  gate  were  hung 
round  the  kitchen  w^alls,  the  hearthrug  was  dowm,  the  turf 
was  piled  up  on  the  fire,  the  kettle  was  singing  from  the 
slowrie,  and  the  whole  house  was  taking  its  afternoon  nap. 

Kate's  bedroom  looked  over  the  orchard  and  across  the 
stackyard  up  the  glen.  She  could  see  the  barley  stack  grow- 
ing in  the  haggard;  the  laden  cart  coming  down  the  glen  road 
with  the  driver  three  decks  up  over  the  mare,  now  half  smoth- 
ered and  looking  suddenly  little,  like  a  snail  under  the  gigan- 
tic load;  and  beyond  the  long  meadow  and  the  Bishop's 
bridge,  the  busy  fields  dotted  with  the  yellow  stooks  and  their 
black  shadows  like  a  castle's  studded  doors. 

When  she  had  thrown  off  her  blue-black  dress  to  wash 
hor  arms  and  shoulders  and  neck  were  bare.  She  caught  sight 
of  herself  in  the  glass,  and  laughed  with  delight.  The  years 
had  brought  her  a  fuller  flow  of  life.  She  was  beautiful,  and 
she  knew  it.  And  Philip  knew  it  too,  but  he  should  know  it 
to  day  as  he  had  never  known  it  before.  She  folded  her  arms 
in  their  roundness  over  her  bosom  in  its  fulness  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  little  roon  over  the  sheep-skin  rugs,  under 
the  turfy  scraas,  glowing  in  the  joy  of  blooming  health  and 
conscious  loveliness.     Then  she  began  to  dress. 

She  took  from  a  drawer  two  pairs  of  stockings,  one  black 


130  THE  MANXMAN. 

and  the  other  red,  and  weighed  their  merits  with  moral 
gravity — which  ?  The  red  had  it,  and  then  came  the  turn 
of  the  boots.  There  was  a  grand  new  pair,  with  countless 
buttons,  two  toecaps  like  tw^o  flowers,  and  an  upward  curve 
like  the  arm  of  a  glove.  She  tried  them  on,  bent  back  and 
forward,  but  relinquished  them  with  a  sigli  in  favour  of  plain 
shoes  cut  under  the  ankles  and  tied  with  tape. 

Her  hair  was  a  graver  matter.  Its  tangled  curls  had  never 
satisfied  her.  She  tried  all  means  to  bring  them  into  subjec- 
tion ;  but  the  roll  on  top  was  ridiculous,  and  the  roll  behind 
was  formal.  She  attempted  long  waves  over  the  temples.  It 
was  impossible.  With  a  lash-comb  she  dragged  her  hair  back 
to  its  natural  lawlessness,  and  when  it  fell  on  her  forehead 
and  over  her  ears  and  around  her  white  neck  in  little  knowing 
rings  that  came  and  went,  and  peeped  out  and  slid  back,  like 
kittens  at  hide-and-seek,  she  laughed  and  was  content. 

From  a  recess  covered  by  a  shawl  running  on  a  string  she 
took  down  her  bodice.  It  was  a  pink  blouse,  loose  over  the 
breast,  like  hills  of  red  sand  on  the  shore,  and  loose,  too,  over 
the  arms,  but  tight  at  the  wrist.  When  she  put  it  on  it  lit  up 
her  head  like  a  gleam  from  the  sunset,  and  her  eyes  danced 
witli  delight. 

The  skirt  was  a  j^i'int,  with  a  faint  pink  flower,  the  sash  was 
a  band  of  cotton  of  the  colour  of  the  bodice,  and  then  came  the 
solemn  problems  of  the  throat.  It  was  round,  and  full,  and 
soft,  and  like  a  tower.  She  would  have  loved  to  leave  it  bare, 
but  dared  not.  Out  of  a  draw^er  under  the  looking-glass  she 
took  a  string  of  pearls.  They  were  a  present  from  Kimberley, 
and  they  hung  over  her  fingers  a  moment  and  then  slipped 
back.  A  w^hite  silk  handkerchief,  wdth  a  watermark,  w^as 
ciiosen  instead.  She  tied  it  in  a  sailor's  knot,  with  the  ends 
flying  loose,  and  the  triangular  corner  lying  down  her  back. 

Last  of  all,  she  took  out  of  a  box  a  broad  white  straw  hat, 
like  an  oyster  shell,  with  a  silver-grey  ribbon,  and  a  sweep- 
ijig  ostrich  feather.  She  looked  at  it  a  moment,  blew  on  it, 
plucked  at  its  ribbon,  lifted  it  over  her  head,  held  it  at  poise 
thei'c,  dropped  it  gently  on  to  her  hair,  stood  back  from  the 
glass  to  see  it,  and  finally  tore  it  off  and  sent  it  skimming  on 
to  the  bed. 

The  substitute  was  her  everyday  sun -bonnet,  which  had 
been  lying  on  the  floor  by  the  press.     It  was  also  of  pale  pink, 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  13X 

with  spots  on  its  print  like  little  shells  on  a  big  scallop.  When 
she  had  tossed  it  over  her  black  curls,  leaving  the  strings  to 
fall  on  her  bosom,  she  could  not  help  but  laugh  aloud. 

After  all,  she  was  dressed  exactly  the  same  as  on  other  days 
of  life,  excei^t  Sunday,  only  smarter,  perhaps,  and  fresher 
maybe. 

The  sun-bonnet  was  right  though,  and  she  began  to  play 
with  it.  It  was  so  full  of  play;  it  lent  itself  to  so  many 
moods.  It  could  speak;  it  could  say  anything.  She  poked  it 
to  a  point,  as  girls  do  when  the  sun  is  hot,  by  closing  its 
mouth  over  the  tip  of  her  nose,  leaving  only  a  slumberous 
dark  cave  visible,  through  which  her  black  eyes  gleamed  and 
her  eyelashes  shone.  She  tied  the  strings  under  her  chin,  and 
tipped  the  bonnet  back  on  to  her  neck,  as  girls  will  when  the 
breeze  is  cool,  leaving  her  hair  uncovered,  her  mouth  twitch- 
ing merrily,  and  her  head  like  a  nymph-head  in  an  aureole. 
She  took  it  off  and  tossed  it  on  her  arm,  the  strings  still 
knotted,  swinging  it  like  a  basket,  then  wafting  it  like  a  fan, 
and  walking  as  she  did  so  to  and  fro  in  the  room,  the  floor 
creaking,  her  print  frock  crinkling,  and  she  herself  laughing 
with  the  thrill  of  passion  vibrating  and  of  imagined  things  to 
come. 

Then  she  went  downstairs  with  a  firm  and  buoyant  step, 
her  fresh  lithe  figure  aglow  with  young  blood  and  bounding 
health. 

At  the  gate  of  the  "  haggard  "  she  met  Nancy  Joe  coming 
out  of  the  wash  house. 

"Lord  save  us  alive!"  exclaimed  Nancy.  "If  I  ever 
wanted  to  be  a  man  until  this  day!  " 

Kate  kissed  and  hugged  her,  then  fled  away  to  the  Melliah 
field. 


XXI. 

Philip,  in  Douglas,  had  received  the  following  communica- 
tion from  Government  House  :— 

"  His  Excellency  will  be  obliged  to  Mr.  Philip  Christian  if 
he  will  not  leave  the  island  for  the  present  without  acquaint- 
ing him  of  his  destination." 


132  THE  MANXMAN. 

Tlie  message  was  a  simple  one:  it  said  little,  and  involved 
and  foreshadowed  nothing,  but  it  threw  Philip  into  a  condition 
of  great  excitement.  To  relieve  his  restlessness  by  giving  way 
to  it,  he  w^ent  out  to  walk.  It  was  the  end  of  the  tourist  sea- 
son, and  the  Ben-my-Chree  was  leaving  the  harbour.  News- 
boys, burrowing  among  the  crowds  on  the  pier  to  sell  a  Manx 
evening  paper,  w^ere  crying,  "  Illness  of  the  Deemster— serious 
reports." 

Philip's  hair  seemed  to  rise  from  his  head.  The  two  things 
came  together  in  his  mind.  With  an  effort  to  smudge  out  the 
connection  he  tiu'ned  back  to  his  lodgings,  looking  at  every- 
thing that  his  eyes  fell  on  in  the  rattling  streets,  speaking  to 
everybody  he  knew,  but  seeing  nothing  and  hearing  nobody. 
The  beast  of  life  had  laid  its  claws  on  him. 

Back  in  his  rooms,  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  packet  which 
Auntie  Nan  had  put  in  his  hand  when  he  was  leaving  Kamsey. 
It  was  a  bundle  of  his  father's  old  letters  to  his  sister  cousin, 
written  from  London  in  the  days  when  he  was  studying  law 
and  life  was  like  the  opening  dawn.  ''The  ink  is  yellow 
now,"  said  Auntie  Nan ;  '*  it  was  black  then,  and  the  hand 
that  wrote  them  is  cold.  But  the  blood  runs  red  in  them  yet. 
Read  them,  Philip,"  she  said  with  a  meaning  look,  and  then 
he  was  sure  she  knew  of  Sulby. 

Philip  read  his  father's  letters  until  it  was  far  into  the 
night,  and  he  had  gone  through  every  line  of  them.  They 
were  as  bright  as  sunshine,  as  free  as  air,  easy,  i^layful,  forci- 
ble, full  of  picture,  but.  above  all,  egotistical,  proud  with  the 
pride  of  intellectuality,  and  vain  with  the  certainty  of  success. 
It  was  this  egotism  that  fascinated  Philip.  He  sniffed  it  up  as 
a  colt  sniffs  the  sharp  wind.  There  was  no  need  to  make  al- 
lowances for  it.  The  castles  which  his  father  had  been  build- 
ing in  the  air  were  only  as  hovels  to  the  golden  palaces  which 
his  son's  eager  spirit  was  that  night  picturing.  Philip  de- 
voured the  letters.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  written  them 
himself  in  some  other  state  of  being.  The  message  from  Gov- 
ernment House  lay  on  a  table  at  his  right,  and  sometimes  he 
put  his  open  hand  over  it  as  he  sat  close  under  the  lamp  on  a 
table  at  his  left  and  read  on  :— 

.  .  .  ''  Heard  old  Broom  in  the  House  last  night,  and  to- 
day I  lunched  with  him  at  Tabley's.  They  call  him  an  orator 
and  the  king  of  conversationalists.     He  speaks  like  a  pump. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  I33 

and  talks  like  a  bottle  running  water.  No  conviction,  no 
sincerity,  no  appeal.  Civil  enough  to  me  though,  and  when 
he  heard  that  father  was  a  Deemster,  he  told  me  the  title 
meant  Doomster,  and  then  asked  me  if  I  knew  the  meaning  of 
*  House  of  Keys,'  and  said  it  had  its  origin  in  the  ancient 
Irish  custom  of  locking  the  muniment  chests  with  twenty- 
four  keys,  whereof  each  counsellor  kept  one.  When  he  had 
left  us  Tabley  asked  if  he  wasn't  a  wonderful  man,  and  if  he 
didn't  know  something  of  everything,  and  I  said,  '  Yes,  except 
the  things  of  which  I  knew  a  little,  and  of  them  he  knew 
nothing.'  .  .  .  My  pen  runs,  runs.  But,  Nannie,  my  little 
Nannie,  if  this  is  what  London  calls  a  great  man,  I'll  kick  the 
ball  like  a  toy  before  me  yet." 

..."  So  you  are  wondering  where  I  am  living — in  man- 
sion or  attic  !  Behold  me  then  in  Brick  Court,  Temple,  sec- 
ond floor.  Goldsmith  wrote  the  '  Vicar '  on  the  third,  but  I've 
not  got  up  to  that  yet.  His  rooms  were  those  immediately 
above  me.  I  seem  to  see  him  coming  down  past  my  door  in 
that  wonderful  plum-coloured  coat.  And  sitting  here  at  night 
I  think  of  him — the  sudden  fear,  the  solitary  death,  then  these 
stairs  thronged  with  his  pensioners,  the  mighty  Burke  push- 
ing through,  Reynolds  with  his  ear-trumpet,  and  big  'blink- 
ing Sam,'  and  last  of  all  the  unknown  grave,  God  knows 
where,  by  the  chapel  wall.  Poor  little  Oliver  !  They  say  it 
was  a  women  that  was  'in'  at  the  end.  No  more  of  the  like 
now,  no  more  debts,  no  more  vain  '  talk  like  poor  Poll  : '  the 
light's  out — all  still  and  dark." 

..."  How's  my  little  Nannie  ?  Does  she  still  keep  a  me- 
nagerie for  sick  dogs  and  lost  cats  ?  And  how's  the  parson-gull 
with  the  broken  wing,  and  does  he  still  strut  like  Parson  Kis- 
sack  in  his  surplice  ?  I  was  at  Westminster  Hall  yesterday. 
It  was  the  great  trial  of  Mitchell,  M.  P.,  who  forged  his  father's 
w^ll.  Stevens  defended — bad,  bad,  bad,  smirking  all  the  while 
with  small  facetise.  But  Denman's  summing  up — oh  !  oh  ! 
such  insight,  such  acuteness  !  It  was  wonderful.  I  had  a 
seat  in  the  gallery.  The  grand  old  hall  was  a  thrilling  scene 
— the  dense  thi'ong,  the  upturned  faces,  the  counsel,  the  judges, 
the  officers  of  court,  and  then  the  windows,  the  statues,  the 
echo  of  history  that  made  every  stone  and  rafter  live — Oh, 
Nan,  Nan,  listen  to  me  !  If  I  live  I'll  sit  on  the  bench  there 
some  day—I  will,  so  help  me  God  ! " 


134  THE  MANXMAN. 

When  Philip  had  finished  his  father's  letters,  he  was  on 
the  heights,  and  poor  Kate  was  left  far  below,  out  of  reach 
and  out  of  sight.  Hitherto  his  ambitious  had  been  little  more 
thau  the  pale  shadow  of  his  father's  hopes,  but  now  they  were 
his  own  realities. 

XXII. 

Next  morning  the  letter  came  from  Caesar  inviting  him  to 
the  Melliah,  and  then  he  thought  of  Kate  more  tenderly.  She 
would  suffer,  she  would  cry — it  would  make  his  heart  bleed  to 
see  her  ;  but  must  he  for  a  few  tears  put  by  the  aims  of  a  life- 
time ?  If  only  Pete  had  been  alive  !  If  only  Pete  were  yet  to 
come  home  !  He  grew  hot  and  ashamed  when  he  remembered 
the  time,  so  lately  past,  when  the  prayer  of  his  secret  heart 
would  have  been  different.  It  was  so  easy  now  to  hate  him- 
self for  such  evil  impulses. 

Philip  decided  to  go  to  the  Melliah.  It  would  give  him 
the  chance  he  wanted  of  breaking  off  the  friendship  finally. 
More  than  friendship  there  had  never  been,  except  secretly, 
and  that  could  not  count.  He  knew  he  was  deceiving  him- 
self ;  he  felt  an  uneasy  sense  of  loss  of  honour  and  a  sharp 
pang  of  tender  love  as  often  as  Kate's  face  rose  up  before 
him. 

On  the  day  of  the  Melliah  he  set  off  early,  riding  by  way 
of  St.  John's  that  he  might  inquire  at  Kirk  Michael  about  the 
Deemster.  He  found  the  great  man's  house  a  desolate  place. 
The  gate  was  padlocked,  and  he  had  to  clamber  over  it  ;  the 
acacias  slashed  above  him  going  down  the  path,  and  the  fallen 
leaves  encumbered  his  feet  At  the  door,  which  was  shut,  he 
rang,  and  before  it  was  opened  to  him  an  old  woman  put  her 
untidy  head  out  of  a  little  window  at  the  side. 

'•It's  scandalous  the  doings  that's  here,  sir,"  she  whispered. 
"The  Dempster's  gone  into  'sterics  with  the  drink,  and  the  lil 
farmer  fellow,  Billiam  Cowley,  is  over  and  giving  him  as 
much  as  he  wants,  and  driving  everybody  away." 

"  Can  I  speak  to  him  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"Billiam  ?  It  isn't  fit.  He'll  blackguard  you  mortal,  and 
the  Dempster  himself  is  past  it.  Just  sitting  with  the  brandy 
and  drinking  and  drinking,  and  ateing  nothing  :  but  that  dirt 
brought  up  on  the  Curragh  shouting  for  beefstakes  morning 


BOY   AND   GIRL.  -  135 

and  night,  and  having  his  dinner  laid  on  a  beautiful  new 
white  sheet  as  clane  as  a  bed." 

From  the  ambush  of  a  screen  before  an  open  door,  Philip 
looked  into  the  room  where  the  Deemster  was  killing  himself. 
The  window  shutters  were  up  to  keep  out  the  daylight ;  can- 
dles were  burning  in  the  necks  of  bottles  on  the  mantelpiece  : 
a  fire  smouldered  in  a  grate  littered  with  paper  and  ashes  ;  a 
coarse-featured  man  was  eating  ravenously  at  the  table,  a 
chop-bone  in  his  fingers,  and  veins  like  cords  moving  on  his 
low  forehead — and  the  Deemster  himself,  judge  of  his  island 
since  the  death  of  Iron  Christian,  was  propped  up  in  a  chair, 
with  a  smoking  glass  on  a  stool  beside  him,  and  a  monkey 
perched  on  his  shoulder.  "Turn  them  out,  neck  and  crop, 
Dempster  ;  the  women  are  all  for  robbing  a  man,"  said  the 
fellow  ;  and  a  husky,  eaten-out  voice  replied  to  him  with  a 
grunt  and  a  laugh,  ''  H'm  !  That's  only  what  you're  doing 
yourself,  then,  you  rascal,  and  if  I'd  let  the  right  one  in  long 
ago  you  wouldn't  be  here  now — nor  I  neither,  would  I, 
Jacko  ? "  The  tail  of  the  monkey  flai^ped  on  the  Deemster's 
breast,  and  Philip  crept  away  with  a  shiver. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  outside  the  house,  and  the 
air  was  fresh  and  sweet.  Remounting  his  horse,  Vv^hich  was 
neighing  and  stamping  at  the  gate,  Philip  rode  hard  to  bring 
back  a  sense  of  warmth.  At  the  ''Fairy  "  he  alighted  and  put 
up,  and  saw  Grannie,  who  was  laying  tables  in  the  mill. 

"  I'm  busy  as  Trap's  wife,"  she  said,  "  and  if  you  were  the 
Govenar  itself  you  wouldn't  get  lave  to  spake  to  me  now. 
Put  a  sight  on  himself  on  the  field  yonder,  the  second  mead- 
ow past  the  Bishop's  bridge,  and  come  back  with  the  boys  to 
supper. " 

Philip  found  the  Melliah  field.  Two-score  workers,  men, 
women,  and  children,  a  cart  and  a  pair  of  horses  were  scattered 
over  it.  Where  the  corn  had  been  cut  the  day  before  the 
stubble  had  been  woven  overnight  into  a  white  carpet  of  cob- 
webs, which  neither  sun  nor  step  of  man  had  yet  dispelled. 
There  were  the  smell  of  the  straw,  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  in 
the  glen,  the  hissing  to  the  breeze  of  the  barley  still  standing, 
the  swish  of  the  scythe  and  the  gling  of  the  sickle,  the  bend- 
ing and  rising  of  the  shearers,  the  swaying  of  the  binders 
dragging  the  sheaves,  the  gluck  of  the  wheels  of  the  cart,  the 
merry  head  of  a  child  peeping  out  of  a  stook  like  a  young 


136  THE  MANXMAN. 

bird  out  of  the  broken  egg,  and  a  girl  in  scarlet,  Avliom  Philip 
recognised,  standing  at  the  farthest  hedge,  and  waving  the 
corn  band  with  which  she  was  tieing  to  some  one  below. 

Philip  vaulted  into  the  field,  and  was  instantly  seized  by 
every  woman  working  in  it,  except  Kate,  tied  up  with  the 
straw  ropes,  and  only  liberated  on  paying  the  toll  of  an  in- 
truder. 

"  Bat  IVe  come  to  work,"  he  protested,  and  Caesar  who, 
was  plotting  the  last  rigs  of  the  harvest,  paired  him  with  Kate 
and  gave  him  a  sickle.  "  He's  a  David,  he'll  smite  down  his 
thousands,"  said  Caesar.  Then  cocking  his  eye  up  the  field, 
"  the  Ballabeg  for  leader,"  he  cried,  "  he's  a  plate-ribbed  man. 
And  let  ould  Maggie  take  the  butt  along  with  him.  Jemmy 
the  Red  for  the  after-rig,  and  Robbie  to  follow  Mollie  with 
the  cart.  Now  ding-dong,  boys,  bend  your  backs  and  down 
with  it." 

Kate  had  not  looked  up  when  Philip  came  into  the  field, 
but  she  had  seen  him  come,  and  she  gave  a  little  start  when 
he  took  his  place  in  his  shirt-sleeves  beside  her.  He  used 
some  conventional  phrases  w^hich  she  scarcely  ausw^ered.  and 
then  nothing  was  heard  but  the  sounds  of  the  sickle  and  the 
corn.  She  worked  steadily  for  some  time,  and  he  looked  up 
at  her  at  intervals  with  her  round  bare  arms  and  supple  wair,t 
and  firm-set  foot  and  tight  red  stocking.  Two  butterflies  tum- 
bling in  the  air  played  around  her  sun  bonnet  and  a  lady-clock 
settled  on  her  wrist. 

Time  was  called  for  rest  as  Nancj^  Joe  came  through  the 
gate  bringing  a  basket  with  bottles  and  a  can. 

"  The  belly's  a  malefactor  that  forgets  former  kindness," 
said  Caesar  ;  ''  ate  and  drink." 

Then  the  men  formed  a  group  about  the  ale,  the  older 
women  drank  tea,  the  children  making  bands  were  given  but- 
ter-milk, and  the  younger  women  with  babes  went  cooing  and 
clucking  to  the  hedge  where  the  little  ones  lay  nnzziod  up  and 
unattended,  some  asleep  in  shawls,  some  awake  on  their  backs 
and  grabbing  at  the  wondrous  forests  of  marguerites  towering 
up  beside  them,  and  all  crying  with  one  voice  at  sight  of  the 
breast,  which  the  mothers  were  as  glad  to  give  as  they  to  lake. 

The  rooks  cawed  in  the  glen,  there  was  a  hot  hum  of  bees, 
and  a  company  of  starlings  passed  overhead,  glittering  in  the 
sunlight  like  the  scales  of  a  herring. 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  I37 

"  They're  taicbing  us  a  lesson,"  said  Ca3sar.  "  They're  go- 
ing together  over  the  sea ;  but  there's  someones  on  eartli  would 
sooner  go  to  heaven  itself  solitarj',  and  take  joy  if  they  found 
themselves  all  alone  and  the  cock  of  the  walk  there." 

Kate  and  Philip  stood  and  talked  whei^e  they  had  been 
shearing  quietly,  simply,  without  apparent  interest,  and  mean- 
while the  workers  discussed  them. 

First  the  men:  ''He  works  his  siggle  like  a  man  though." 
— "  A  stout  boy  anyw^ay  ;  give  him  practice  and  he'd  shear 
many  a  man  in  bed."  Then  the  women:  ''She's  looking  as 
bright  as  a  pewter  pot,  and  she's  all  so  pretty  as  the  Govenar's 
daughter  too." — '"Got  a  good  heart,  though.  Only  last  week 
she  had  word  of  Pete,  and  look  at  the  scarlet  perricut." 
Finally  both  men  and  women:  ''  Lave  her  alone,  mother;  it's 
that  Dross  that's  wasting  the  woman." — ''Well,  if  I  was  a 
man  I'd  know  my  tack." — "Wouldn't  trust.  It  comes  with 
Caesar  anyway;  the  Lord  prospers  him;  she'll  have  her  pick- 
ings. Nothing  bates  religion  in  this  w^orld.  It's  like  going 
to  the  shop  with  an  ould  Manx  shilling — you  get  your  pen'orth 
of  taffy  and  twelve  pence  out." — ''Lend's  a  hand  with  the 
jough  then,  boy.  None  left  ?  Aw,  Caesar's  wonderful  relig- 
ious, but  there's  never  much  lavings  of  ale  with  him." 

Caesar  was  striding  through  the  stooks  past  Philip  and 
Kate. 

"  Will  it  thrash  well,  Mr.  Cregeen  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  Eight  bolls  to  the  acre  maybe,  but  no  straw  to  spake  of, 
sir,"  said  Caesar.  "  Now,  boys,  let  the  weft  rest  on  the  last  end, 
finish  your  work." 

The  workers  fell  to  again,  and  the  sickle  of  the  leader  sang 
round  his  head  as  he  hacked  and  blew  and  sent  off  his  breath 
in  spits  until  the  green  grass  springing  up  behind  him  left 
only  a  triangular  corner  of  yellow  corn.  Fore-rig  and  the 
after-rig  took  a  tussle  together,  and  presently  nothing  was 
standing  of  all  the  harvest  of  Glenmooar  but  one  small  shaft 
of  ears  a  yard  wide  or  less.  Then  the  leaders  stopped,  and  all 
the  shearers  of  the  field  came  up  and  cast  down  their  sickles 
into  the  soil  in  a  close  circle,  making  a  sheaf  of  crescent 
moons. 

"Now  for  the  Melliah,"  said  Caesar.  "Who's  to  ba 
Queen  ?" 

There  was  a  cry  for  Kate,  and  she  sailed  forward  buoyantly, 


13S  THE   MANXMAN. 

fresh  still,  warm  with  her  work,  and  looking  like  the  after- 
glow from  the  sunset  in  the  lengthening  shadows  from  the 
west. 

"  Strike  them  from  their  legs,  Kirry,"  cried  Nancy  Joe,  and 
Kate  drew  up  one  of  the  sickles,  swept  her  left  arm  over  the 
standing  corn,  and  at  a  single  stroke  of  her  right  hrought  the 
last  ears  to  the  ground. 

Then  there  was  a  great  shout.  ''Hurrah  for  the  Mel- 
liah  ! "  It  rang  thi'ough  the  glen  and  echoed  in  the  moun- 
tains. Grannie  heard  it  in  the  valley,  and  said  to  herself, 
"  Csesar's  Melliah's  took." 

'•  Well,  vv-e've  gathered  the  ripe  corn,  praise  His  name," 
said  Caesar,  ''  but  what  shall  be  done  at  the  great  gathering 
for  unripe  Christians  ? " 

Kate  lifted  her  last  sheaf  and  tied  it  about  with  a  piece  of 
blue  ribbon,  and  Philip  plucked  the  cushag  (the  ragwort) 
from  the  hedge,  and  gave  it  her  to  put  in  the  band. 

This  being  done,  the  Queen  of  the  Melliah  stepped  back, 
feeling  Philij)'s  eyes  following  her,  while  the  oldest  woman 
shearer  came  forward. 

•'  IVe  a  crown-piece,  here  that's  being  lying  in  my  pocket 
long  enough,  Joney,"  said  Cassar  with  an  expansive  air,  and 
he  gave  the  woman  her  accustomed  dole. 

She  was  a  timid,  shrinking  creature,  having  a  face  walled 
with  wrinkles,  and  wearing  a  short  blue  petticoat,  showing 
heavy  dull  boots  like  a  man's,  and  thick  black  stockings. 

Then  the  young  fellows  went  racing  over  the  field,  vault- 
ing the  stooks,  stretching  a  straw  rope  for  the  girls  to  jump 
over,  heightening  and  tightening  it  to  trip  them  up,  and 
slacking  and  twirling  it  to  make  them  skip.  And  the  gii'ls 
were  falling  with  a  laugh,  and  leaping  up  again  and  flying 
off  like  the  dust,  tearing  their  frocks  and  dropping  their  sun- 
bonnets  as  if  the  barley  grains  they  had  been  reaping  had  got 
into  their  blood. 

In  the  midst  of  this  maddening  frolic,  while  Caesar  and 
the  others  were  kneeling  behind  the  barley  stack.  Kate 
snatched  Philip's  hat  from  his  head  and  shot  like  a  gleam 
into  the  depths  of  the  glen. 

Philip  dragged  up  his  coat  by  one  of  its  arms  and  fled  after 
her. 


BOY   AND  GlitL.  ^[39 

XXIII. 

SuLBY  Glen  is  winding,  soft,  rich,  sweet,  and  exquisitely 
beautiful.  A  thin  thread  of  blue  water,  laughing,  babbling, 
brawling,  whooping,  leaping,  gliding,  and  stealing  down  from 
the  mountains  ;  great  boulders  worn  smooth  and  ploughed 
hollow  by  the  wash  of  ages  ;  wet  moss  and  lichen  on  the 
channel  walls  ;  deep,  cool  dubbs  ;  tiny  reefs  ;  little  cascades 
of  boiling  foam  ;  lines  of  trees  like  sentinels  on  either  side, 
making  the  light  dim  through  the  overshadowing  leafage  ; 
gaunt  trunks  torn  up  by  winds  and  thrown  across  the  stream 
with  their  heads  to  the  feet  of  their  fellows  ;  the  golden 
fuschia  here,  the  green  trammon  there  ;  now  and  again  a 
poor  old  tholthan,  a  roofless  house,  with  grass  growing  on  its 
kitchen  floor  ;  and  over  all  the  sun  peering  down  with  a 
hundred  eyes  into  the  dark  and  slumberous  gloom,  and  the 
breeze  singing  somewhere  up  in  the  tree- tops  to  the  voice  of 
the  river  below. 

Kate  had  run  out  on  the  stem  of  one  of  the  fallen  trees, 
and  there  Philip  found  her,  over  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
laughing,  dancing,  waving  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  making 
sweeping  bows  to  her  reflection  in  the  water  below. 

"Come  back,"  he  cried.  "You  terrible  girl,  you'll  fall. 
Sit  down  there — don't  torment  me,  sit  down." 

After  a  curtsey  to  him  she  turned  her  attention  to  her 
skirts,  wound  them  about  her  ankles,  sat  on  the  trunk,  and 
dangled  her  shapely  feet  half  an  inch  over  the  surface  of  the 
stream. 

Then  Philip  had  time  to  observe  that  the  other  end  of  the 
tree  did  not  reach  the  opposite  bank,  but  dipped  short  into  the 
water.  So  he  barricaded  his  end  by  sitting  on  it,  and  said 
triumphantly  :  "  My  hat,  if  you  please." 

Kate  looked  and  gave  a  little  cry  of  alarm  and  then  a 
chuckle,  and  then  she  said — 

"  You  thought  you'd  caught  me,  didn't  you  ?  You  can't, 
though,"  and  she  dropped  on  to  a  boulder  from  which  she 
might  have  skipped  ashore. 

''I  can't,  can't  I  ?"  said  Philip  ;  and  he  twisted  a  smaller 
boulder  on  his  side,  so  that  Kate  was  surrounded  by  water 
and  cut  off  from  the  bank.     "  My  hat  now,  madam,"  he  said 
with  majestic  despotism. 
10 


140  THE   MANXMAN. 

She  would  not  deliver  it,  so  he  pretended  to  leave  her 
where  she  was.  "  Good-bye,  then  ;  good  evening,"  he  cried 
over  the  laughter  of  the  stream,  and  turned  away  a  step  bare- 
headed. 

A  moment  later  his  confidence  was  dashed.  When  he 
turned  his  head  back  Kate  had  whipped  oif  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  was  ramming  the  one  inside  the  other. 

"'  What  are  you  doing  ? "  cried  Philip. 

"  Cauch  this— and  this,"  she  said,  flinging  the  shoes  across 
to  him.  Then  clapping  his  straw  hat  on  the  crown  of  her 
sun-bonnet,  she  tucked  up  her  skirts  with  both  hands  and 
waded  ashore. 

"  What  a  clever  boy  you  are  !  You  thought  you'd  caught 
me  again,  didn't  you  ? "  she  said. 

**  I've  caught  your  shoes,  anyway,"  said  Philip,  "and  until 
you  give  me  my  hat  I'll  stick  to  them." 

She  was  on  the  shingle,  but  in  her  bare  feet,  and  could 
not  make  a  step. 

'*  My  shoes,  please  ? "  she  pleaded. 

"  My  hat  first,"  he  answered. 

"Take  it." 

"  No  ;  you  must  give  it  me." 

"  Never  !    I'll  sit  here  all  night  first,"  said  Kate. 

"I'm  willing,"  said  Philip. 

They  were  sitting  thus,  the  one  bare-headed,  the  other  with 
bare  feet,  and  on  the  same  stone,  as  if  seats  in  the  glen  w^ere 
scarce,  when  there  came  the  sound  of  a  hymn  from  the  field 
they  had  left,  and  then  it  was  agreed  by  way  of  mutual  penal- 
ty that  Kate  should  put  on  Philip's  hat  on  condition  that 
Philip  should  be  required  to  put  on  Kate's  shoes. 

At  the  next  moment  Philip,  suddenly  sobered,  was  re- 
proaching himself  fiercely.  What  was  he  doing  ?  He  had 
come  to  tell  Kate  that  he  should  come  no  more,  and  this  was 
how  he  had  begun  !  Yesterday  he  was  in  Douglas  reading 
his  father's  letters,  and  here  he  was  to-day,  forgetting  himself, 
his  aims  in  life,  his  duties,  his  obligations  —  everything. 
"  Philip,"  he  thought,  "  you  are  as  weak  as  water.  Give  up 
your  plans  ;  you  are  not  fit  for  them  ;  abandon  your  hopes — 
they  are  too  high  for  you." 

"  How  solemn  we  are  all  at  once  ! "  said  Kate. 

The  hymn  (a  most  doleful  strain,  dragged  out  to  death  on 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  14;!^ 

every  note)  was  still  coming  from  the  Molliah  field,  and  she 
added,  slyly,  shyly,  with  a  mixture  of  boldness  and  nervous- 
ness, "  Do  you  think  this  world  is  so  very  bad,  then  ?  " 

"  Well — aw — no,"  he  faltered,  and  looking  up  he  met  her 
eye,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"It's  all  nonsense,  isn't  it  ?"  she  said,  and  they  began  to 
w^alk  down  the  glen. 

•'  But  where  are  we  going  ? " 

"  Oh,  we'll  come  out  this  way  just  as  well." 

The  scutch  grass,  the  long  rat-tail,  and  the  golden  cushag 
were  swishing  against  his  riding-breeches  and  her  print  dress. 
"  I  must  tell  her  now,"  he  thought.  In  the  narrow  places  she 
went  first,  and  he  followed  with  a  lagging  step,  trying  to  be- 
gin. "  Better  prepare  her,"  he  thought.  But  he  could  think 
of  no  commonplace  leading  up  to  what  he  wished  to  say. 

Presently,  through  a  tangle  of  wild  fuchsia,  there  was  a 
smell  of  burning  turf  in  the  air  and  the  sound  of  milking  into 
a  pail,  and  then  a  voice  came  up  surprisingly  as  from  the 
ground,  saying  : 

"  Aisy  on  the  thatch.  Miss  Cregeen,  ma'am." 

It  was  old  Jone}^  the  shearer,  milking  her  goat,  and  Kate 
had  stepped  on  to  the  roof  of  her  house  witliout  knowing  it,  for 
the  little  place  was  low  and  opened  from  the  water's  edge  and 
leaned  against  the  bank. 

Philip  made  some  conventional  inquiries,  and  she  an- 
swered that  she  had  been  thirty  years  there,  and  had  one  son 
living  with  her,  and  he  was  an  imbecile. 

"  There  was  once  a  flock  at  me,  and  I  was  as  young  as  you 
are  then,  miss,  and  all  as  happy  ;  but  they're  laving  me  one 
by  one,  except  this  one,  and  he  isn't  wdse,  poor  boy." 

Philip  tried  to  steel  his  heart.  "It  is  cruel,"  he  thought, 
"  it  will  hurt  her  ;  but  what  must  be,  must  be."  She  began  to 
sing  and  went  carolling  down  the  glen,  keeping  two  jDaces  in 
front  of  him.  He  followed  like  an  assassin  meditating  the 
moment  to  strike.  "  He  is  going  to  say  something,"  she 
thought,  and  then  she  sang  louder. 

"  Kate,"  he  called  huskily. 

But  she  only  clapped  her  hands,  and  cried  in  a  voice  of  de- 
light, "  The  echo  !     Here's  the  echo  !     Let's  shout  to  it." 

Her  kindling  features  banished  his  purpose  for  the  time, 
and  he  delivered  himself  to  her  play.     Then  she  called  up  the 


142  THE  MANXMAN. 

gill,  "  Ec — ho  !  Ec— ho  ! "  and  listened,  but  there  was  no  re- 
spor.se,  and  she  said,  "  It  won't  answer  to  its  own  name.  What 
shall  I  call  ? " 

"  Oh,  anything,"  said  Philip. 

"Phil— ip  !  Phil — ip  !  "  she  called,  and  then  said  pettishly, 
"No,  Philip  won't  hear  me  either."  She  laughed.  "He's  al- 
ways so  stupid  though,  and  i^erhaps  he's  asleep." 

"  More  this  way,"  said  Philip.     "  Try  now." 

"You  try." 

Philip  took  up  the  call.  "  Kate  ! "  he  shouted,  and  back 
came  the  answer,  Ate  !    "  Kate— y  ! " — Ate — ?/. 

"  Ah  !  how  quick  !  Katey's  a  good  girl.  Hark  how  she 
answers  you,"  said  Kate. 

They  walked  a  few  steps,  and  Kate  called  again,  "  Philip  ! " 
There  was  no  answer.  "  Philip  is  stubboi'n  ;  he  won't  have 
anything  to  do  with  me,"  said  Kate. 

Then  Philip  called  a  second  time,  "  Katey  ! "  And  back 
came  the  echo  as  before.  "  Well,  that's  too  bad.  Katey  is — 
yes,  she's  actually /oZZoirmgr  you  !  " 

Philip's  courage  oozed  out  of  him.  "  Not  yet,"  he  thought. 
Traa-dy-liooar — time  enough.  "After  supper,  when  every- 
body is  going  !  Outside  the  mill,  in  the  half  light  of  candles 
within  and  darkness  without  !  It  will  sound  so  ordinary  then, 
'  Good-bye  !  Haven't  you  heard  the  news  ?  Auntie  Nan  is 
reconciled  at  last  to  leaving  Ballure  and  joining  me  in  Doug- 
las.'    That's  it  ;  so  simple,  so  commonplace." 

The  light  was  now  coming  between  the  trees  on  the  closing 
west  in  long  swords  of  sunset  red.  They  could  hear  the  jolt- 
ing of  the  laden  cart  on  its  way  down  the  glen.  The  birds 
were  fairly  rioting  overhead,  and  all  sorts  of  joyous  sounds 
filled  the  air.  Underfoot  there  were  long  ferns  and  gorse, 
which  caught  at  her  crinkling  dress  sometimes,  and  then  he 
liberated  her  and  they  laughed.  A  trailing  bough  of  deadly 
nightshade  was  hanging  from  the  broken  head  of  an  old  ash 
stump,  whose  wasted  feet  were  overgrown  by  two  scarlet- 
tipped  toadstools,  and  she  plucked  a  long  tendril  of  it  and 
wound  it  about  her  head,  tipping  her  sun-bonnet  back,  and 
letting  the  red  berries  droop  over  her  dark  hair  to  her  face. 
Then  she  began  to  sing, 

0  wore  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 
Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign. 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  I43 

Eadiant  gleams  shot  out  of  her  black  pupils,  and  flashes  of 
love  like  lightning  passed  from  her  eye  to  his. 

Then  he  tried  to  moralise.  "Ah  !"  he  said,  out  of  the 
gravity  of  his  wisdom,  "  if  one  could  only  go  on  for  ever  like 
this,  living  from  minute  to  minute  !  But  that's  the  difference 
between  a  man  and  a  woman.  A  woman  lives  in  the  world 
of  her  own  heart.  If  she  has  interests,  they  centre  there. 
But  a  man  has  his  interests  outside  his  affections.  He  is 
compelled  to  deny  himself,  to  let  the  sweetest  things  go 
by." 

Kate  began  to  laugh,  and  Philip  ended  by  laughing  too. 

" Look  !  "  she  cried,  "only  look." 

On  the  top  of  the  bank  above  them  a  goat  was  skirmishing. 
He  was  a  ridiculous  fellow  ;  sometimes  cropping  with  saucy 
jerks,  then  kicking  up  his  heels,  as  if  an  invisible  imp  had 
pinched  him,  then  wagging  his  rump  and  laughing  in  his 
nostrils. 

"  As  I  was  saying,'  said  Philip,  "  a  man  has  to  put  by  the 
pleasures  of  life.  Now  here's  myself,  for  example.  I  am 
bound,  do  you  know,  by  a  kind  of  duty — a  sort  of  vow  made 
to  the  dead,  I  might  say " 

"I'm  sure  he's  going  to  say  something,"  thought  Kate. 
The  voice  of  his  heart  was  speaking  louder  and  quicker  than 
his  halting  tongue.  She  saw  that  a  blow  was  coming,  and 
looked  about  for  the  means  to  ward  it  off. 

"  The  fairy's  dubb  !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  and  darted  from 
his  side  to  the  water's  edge. 

It  was  a  little  round  pool,  black  as  ink,  lying  quiet  and  ap- 
parently motionless  under  a  noisy  place  where  the  waters 
swirled  and  churned  over  black  moss,  and  the  stream  ran  into 
the  dark.     Philip  had  no  choice  but  to  follow  her. 

"  Cut  me  a  willow  !  Your  penknife  !  Quick,  sir,  quick  ! 
Not  that  old  branch — a  sapling.  There,  that's  it.  Now  you 
shall  hear  me  tell  my  owm  fortune." 

"  An  ordeal  is  it  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  Hush  !  Be  quiet,  still,  or  little  Phonodoree  wont  listen. 
Hush,  now  hush  ! " 

With  solemn  airs,  but  a  certain  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  she 
went  down  on  her  knees  by  the  pool,  stretched  her  round  arm 
over  the  water,  passed  the  willow  bough  slowly  across  its  sur- 
face, and  recited  her  incantation  : 


1^4.  THE   MANXMAN. 

Willow  bough,  willow  bough,  which  of  the  four, 
Sink,  circle,  or  swim,  or  come  floating  ashore  ? 
Which  is  the  fortune  you  keep  for  my  life. 
Old  maid  or  young  mistress  or  widow  or  wife  ? 

With  the  last  word  she  flung  the  willow  bough  on  to  the 
pool,  and  sat  back  on  her  heels  to  watch  it  as  it  moved  slowly 
with  the  motion  of  the  water. 

"Bravo  !  "  cried  Philip. 

"  Be  quiet.     It's  swimming.     No,  it's  coming  ashore." 

"It's  wife,  Kate.     No,  it's  widow.     No,  it's " 

''  Do  be  serious.  Oh,  dear  !  it's  going — yes,  it's  going 
round.     Not  that  either.     No,  it  has — yes,  it  has oh  ! " 

''  Sunk  ! "  said  Philip,  laughing  and  clapping  his  hands. 
"  You're  doomed  to  be  an  old  maid,  Kate.  Phonodoree  says 
so." 

"  Cruel  Brownie  !  I'm  vexed  that  I  bothered  with  him," 
said  Kate,  dropping  her  lip.  Then  nodding  to  her  reflection 
in  the  water  where  the  willow  bough  had  disappeared,  she 
said,  "  Poor  little  Katey  !  He  might  have  given  you  some- 
thing else.     xAny thing  but  that  dear,  eh  ? " 

"  What,"  laughed  Philip,  "  crying  ?  Because  Phonodoree 
— never  1 " 

Kate  leapt  up  with  averted  face.  "V\niat  nonsense  you 
are  talking  !  "  she  said. 

"  There  are  tears  in  your  eyes,  though,"  said  Philip. 

"No  w^onder,  either.  You're  so  ridiculous.  And  if  I'm 
meant  for  an  old  maid,  you're  meant  for  an  old  bachelor— and 
quite  right  too  !  " 

"Oh,  it  is,  is  it?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  You've  got  no  more  heart  than  a  mush- 
room, for  you're  all  head  and  legs,  and  you're  going  to  be 
just  as  bald  some  day." 

"I  am,  am  I,  mistress  ?" 

"If  I  were  you,  Philip,  1  should  hire  myself  out  for  a  scare- 
crow, and  then  having  nothing  under  j'our  clothes  wouldn't 
so  much  matter," 

"It  wouldn't,  wouldn't  it  ?"  said  Philip. 

She  was  shying  oif  at  a  half  circle  ;  he  was  beating  round 
her. 

"But  you're  nearly  as  old  as  Methuselah  ah-eady,  and  what 
you'll  be  when  you're  a  man " 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  I45 

"Lookout!" 

She  made  him  an  arch  curtsey  and  leapt  round  a  tree,  and 
cried  from  the  other  side,  "  /  know.  A  squeaking  old  croaker, 
with  the  usual  old  song,  '  'Deed  yes,  friends,  this  world  is  a 
vale  of  sin  and  misery.'  The  men's  tlie  misery  aud  the 
women's  the  sin " 

"  You  rogue,  you  !  "  cried  Philix?. 

He  made  after  her,  and  she  fled,  still  speaking, 

''  What  do  you  think  a  girl  wants  with  a Oh  !   Oh  ! 

Oo  ! " 

Her  tirade  ended  suddenly.  She  had  plunged  into  a  bed 
of  the  prickly  gorse,  and  was  feeling  in  twenty  places  at  once 
what  it  was  to  wear  low  shoes  and  thin  stockings. 

"  With  a  Samson,  eh  ? "  cried  Philip,  striding  on  in  his 
riding  breeches,  and  lifting  the  captured  creature  in  his  arms. 
"  Why,  to  carry  her,  you  torment,  to  carry  her  through  the 
gorse  like  this." 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said,  turning  her  face  over  his  shoulder,  and 
tickling  his  neck  with  her  breath. 

Her  hair  caught  in  a  tree,  and  fell  in  a  dark  shov/er  over 
his  breast.  He  set  her  on  her  feet ;  they  took  hands,  and 
went  carolling  down  tlie  glen  together  : 

"  The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown, 
Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen." 

The  daylight  lingered  as  if  loth  to  leave  them.  There  was 
the  fluttering  of  wings  overhead,  and  sometimes  the  last  piping 
of  birds.  The  wind  wandered  away,  and  left  their  voices  sover- 
eign of  all  the  air. 

Then  there  came  a  distant  shout ;  the  cheer  of  the  farm 
people  on  reaching  home  with  the  Melliah.  It  awakened 
Philip  as  from  a  fit  of  intoxication. 

"  This  is  madness,"  he  thought.     "What  am  I  doing  ? " 

"  He  is  going  to  speak  now,"  she  told  herself. 

Her  gaiety  shaded  off  into  melancholy,  and  her  melancholy 
burst  into  wild  gaiety  again.  The  night  had  come  down,  the 
moon  had  risen,  the  stars  had  appeared.  She  crept  closer  to 
Philip's  side,  and  began  to  tell  him  the  story  of  a  witch.  They 
were  near  to  the  house  the  witch  had  lived  in.  There  it  was 
—that  roofless  cottage—  that  tholthan  under  the  deep  trees  like 
a  dungeon. 


14G  TUE   MANXMAN. 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  her,  Philip  ?  No  ?  The  one 
they  called  the  Deemster's  lady  ? " 

*'  What  Deemster  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  This  one,  Deemster  Mylrea,  who  is  said  to  be  dying. " 

"  He  is  dying  ;  he  is  liilling  himself  ;  I  saw  him  to-day,' 
said  Philip. 

•'  Well,  she  was  the  blacksmith's  daughter,  and  he  left  hei', 
and  she  went  mad  and  cursed  him,  and  said  she  was  his  wife 
though  they  hadn't  been  to  church,  and  he  should  never  marry 
anybody  else.  Then  her  father  turned  her  out,  and  she  came 
up  here  all  alone,  and  there  was  a  baby,  and  they  were  saying 
she  killed  it,  and  everybody  was  afraid  of  her.  And  all  the 
time  her  boy  was  making  himself  a  great,  great  man  until  he 
got  to  be  Deemster.  But  he  never  married,  never,  though 
times  and  times  people  were  putting  this  lady  on  him  and 
then  that  ;  but  when  they  told  the  witch,  she  only  laughed 
and  said,  '  Let  him,  he'll  get  lave  enough  ! '  At  last  she  was 
old  and  going  on  two  sticks,  and  like  to  die  any  day,  and  then 
he  crept  out  of  his  big  house  unknown  to  any  one  and  stole 
up  here  to  the  woman's  cottage.  And  when  she  saw  the  old 
man  she  said,  '  So  you've  come  at  last,  boy  ;  but  you've  been 
keeping  me  long,  bogh,  you've  been  keeping  me  long.'  And 
then  she  died.     Wasn't  that  strange  ? " 

Her  dark  eyes  looked  up  at  him  and  her  mouth  quivered. 

''  Was  it  witchcraft,  then  ? "  said  Philip. 

''  Oh,  no  ;  it  was  only  because  he  W' as  her  husband.  That 
was  the  hold  she  had  of  him.  He  was  tempted  away  by  a  big 
house  and  a  big  name,  but  he  had  to  cor  le  back  to  her.  And 
it's  the  same  with  a  woman.  Once  a  girl  is  the  wife  of  some- 
body, she  must  cling  to  him,  and  if  she  is  ever  false  she  must 
return.  Something  compels  her.  That's  if  she's  really  his 
wife — really,  truly.  How  beautiful,  isn't  it  ?  Isn't  it  beau- 
tiful?" 

"  Do  you  think  that,  Kate  ?  Do  you  think  a  man,  like  a 
woman,  would  cling  the  closer  ? " 

"  He  couldn't  help  himself,  Philip." 

Philip  tried  to  say  it  was  only  a  girl's  morality,  but  her 
confidence  shamed  him.  She  slipped  her  moist  fingers  into 
his  hand  again.  They  were  close  by  the  deserted  tholthan, 
and  she  was  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  to  his  side.  A  bat 
swirled  above  their  heads  and  she  made  a  faint  cry.     Then  a 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  I4.7 

cat  shot  from  under  a  gooseberry  bush,  and  she  gave  a  little 
scream.  She  was  breathing  irregularly.  He  could  smell  the 
perfume  of  her  fallen  hair.  He  was  in  agony  of  pain  and  de- 
light. His  heart  was  leaping  in  his  bosom  ;  his  eyes  were 
burning. 

''She's  right,"  he  thought.  "Love  is  best.  It  is  every- 
thing. It  is  the  crown  of  life.  Shall  I  give  it  up  for  the 
Dead  Sea  fruit  of  worldly  success  ?  Think  of  the  Deemster  ! 
Wifeless,  childless,  living  solitary,  dying  alone,  unregretted, 
unmourned.  Vv^hat  is  the  wickedness  you  are  plotting  ?  Your 
father  is  dead,  you  can  do  him  neither  good  nor  harm.  This 
girl  is  alive.  She  loves  you.  Love  her.  Let  the  canting 
hypocrites  prate  as  they  will." 

She  had  disengaged  her  hand,  and  was  creeping  away  from 
him  in  the  half  darkness,  treading  softly  and  going  off  like  a 
gleam. 

"  Kate  !  "  he  called. 

He  heard  her  laughter,  he  heard  the  drowsy  hum  of  the 
gill,  he  could  smell  the  warm  odour  of  the  gorse  bushes. 

"  But  this  is  madness,"  he  thought.  "  This  is  the  fever  of 
an  hour.  Yield  now  and  I  am  ruined  for  life.  The  girl  has 
come  between  me  and  my  aims,  my  vows,  my  work— every- 
thing.    She  has  tempted  me,  and  I  am  as  weak  as  v/ater." 

"  Kate  ! " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Come  here  this  moment,  Kate.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

"Bite  !"  she  said,  coming  back  and  holding  an  apple  to 
his  lips.     She  had  plucked  it  in  the  overgrown  garden. 

"  Listen  !  I'm  leaving  Ramsey  for  good— don't  intend  to 
practise  in  the  northern  courts  any  longer— settling  in  Doug- 
las—best work  lies  there,  you  see— worst  of  it  is— we  shan't 
meet  again  soon — not  very  soon,  you  know — not  for  years, 
perhaps " 

He  began  by  stammering,  and  went  on  stuttering,  blurt- 
ing out  his  words,  and  trembling  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice. 

"  Philip,  you  must  not  go !  "  she  cried. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Kate,  very  sorry.  Shall  always  remember  so 
tenderly— not  to  say  fondly— the  happy  boy  and  girl  days  to- 
gether." 


14:S  THE   MAXXMAX. 

"  Philip,  Philip,  you  must  not  go — you  cannot  go — you  shall 
not  go  I " 

He  could  see  her  bosom  heaving  under  her  loose  red  bodice. 
She  took  liold  of  his  arm  and  dragged  at  it. 

"  Won't  you  spare  me  ?  Will  you  shame  me  to  death  ? 
Must  I  tell  you  ?  If  you  won't  speak,  /  will.  You  cannot 
leave  me,  Philip,  because — because — what  do  I  care  ? — because 
I  love  you  I " 

"  Don't  say  that,  Kate !  " 

''I  love  you,  Philip — I  love  you — I  love  you!" 

"  Would  to  God  I  had  never  been  born  ! " 

''But  I  will  show  you  how  sweet  it  is  to  be  alive.  Take  me, 
take  me — I  am  yours  I  " 

Her  upturned  face  seemed  to  flash.  He  staggered  like  one 
seized  with  giddiness.  It  VN^as  a  thing  of  terror  to  behold  her. 
Still  he  struggled.  "  Though  apart,  we  shall  remember  each 
other,  Kate." 

"  I  don't  want  to  remember.     I  want  to  have  you  with  me." 

"Our  hearts  will  always  be  together." 

"  Come  to  me  then,  Philip,  come  to  me  I  " 

''  The  purest  part  of  our  hearts — our  souls " 

"  But  I  want  you  !  Will  3-ou  drive  a  girl  to  shame  herself 
again?  I  want  1/0  z;,  Philip  I  I  want  your  eyes  that  I  may  see 
them  every  day ;  and  your  hair,  that  I  may  feel  it  with  my 
hands;  and  your  lips — can  I  helj)  it  ? — yes,  and  your  lij^s,  that 
I  may  kiss  and  kiss  them  I " 

''Kate!  Kate!  Turn  your  eyes  away.  Don't  look  at  me 
like  that!"  She  was  fighting  for  her  life.  It  was  to  be  now 
or  never. 

"  If  you  won't  come  to  me,  I'll  go  to  you !  "  she  cried ;  and 
then  she  sprang  upon  him,  and  all  grew  confused,  the  berries 
of  the  nightshade  whipped  his  forehead,  and  the  moon  and  the 
stars  went  out. 

''  My  love !     My  darling !     My  girl !  " 

"  You  won't  go  now  ? "  she  sobbed. 

"  God  forgive  me,  I  cannot." 

"  Kiss  me.  I  feel  your  heart  beating.  You  are  mine — 
mine — mine !     Say  you  won't  go  now !  " 

'*  God  forgive  us  both !  " 

'•  Kiss  me  again,  Philip!  Don't  desj>ise  me  that  I  love  you 
better  than  myself!" 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  l^iO 

She  was  weeping,  she  was  laughing,  her  heart  was  throb- 
bing up  to  her  throat.  At  the  uext  moment  she  had  broken 
from  his  embrace  and  was  gone. 

''  Kate !     Kate ! " 

Her  voice  came  from  the  tholthan. 

"Philip!" 

When  a  good  woman  falls  from  honour,  is  it  merely  that 
she  is  a  victim  of  momentary  intoxication,  of  stress  of  passion, 
of  the  fever  of  instinct  ?  No.  It  is  mainly  that  she  is  a  slave 
of  the  sweetest,  tenderest,  most  spu'itual  and  pathetic  of  all 
human  fallacies — the  fallacy  that  by  giving  herself  to  the  man 
she  loves  she  attaches  him  to  herself  for  ever.  This  is  the  real 
betrayer  of  nearly  all  good  women  that  are  betrayed.  It  lies 
at  the  root  of  tens  of  thousands  of  the  cases  that  make  up  the 
merciless  story  of  man's  sin  and  woman's  weakness.  Alas !  it 
is  only  the  woman  who  clings  the  closer.  The  impulse  of  the 
man  is  to  draw  apart.  He  must  conquer  it  or  she  is  lost. 
Such  is  the  old  cruel  difference  and  inequality  of  man  and 
woman  as  nature  made  them— the  old  trick,  the  old  tragedy. 


XXIV. 

Old  Mannanin,  the  magician,  according  to  his  wont,  had 
surrounded  his  island  v/ith  mist  that  day,  and,  in  the  helpless 
void  of  things  unrevealed,  a  steamship  bound  for  Liverpool 
came  with  engines  slacked  some  points  north  of  her  course, 
blowing  her  fog-horn  over  the  breathless  sea  with  that  un- 
earthly yell  which  must  surely  be  the  sound  whereby  the 
devil  summons  his  legions  out  of  chaos. 

Presently  something  dropping  through  the  dense  air  settled 
for  a  moment  on  the  damp  rope  of  the  companion  ladder,  and 
one  of  the  passengers  recognised  it. 

"My  gough!    It's  a  bird,  a  sparrow,"  he  cried. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  rustle  of  wind,  the  mist 
lifted,  and  a  great  round  shoulder  rose  through  the  white 
gauze,  as  if  it  had  been  the  ghost  of  a  mountain. 

"That's  the  Isle  of  Man,"  the  passenger  sliouted,  and  there 
was  a  cry  of  incredulity.    "It's  the  Calf,  I'm  telling  you,  boys. 


150  THE  MANXMAN. 

Lave  it  to  me  to  know."  And  instantly  the  engines  were 
reversed. 

The  passenger,  a  stalwart  fellow,  with  a  look  as  of  pallor 
under  a  tawny  tan,  walked  the  deck  in  a  fever  of  excitement, 
sometimes  shouting  in  a  cracked  voice,  sometimes  laughing 
huskily,  and  at  last  breaking  down  in  a  hoarse  gurgle  like  a 
sob. 

"  Can't  you  put  me  ashore,  capt'n  ? " 

''Sorry  I  can't,  sir,  we've  lost  time  already." 

There  was  a  dog  with  him,  a  little,  misshappen,  ugly  crea- 
ture, and  he  lifted  it  up  in  his  arms  and  hugged  it,  and  called 
it  by  blusterous  swear  names,  with  noises  of  inarticulate  affec- 
tion. Then  he  went  down  to  his  berth  in  the  second  cabin 
and  opened  a  little  box  of  letters,  and  took  them  out  one  by 
one,  and  leaned  up  to  the  port  to  read  them.  He  had  read 
them  before,  and  he  knew  them  by  heart,  but  he  traced  the 
lines  with  his  broad  forefinger,  and  spelled  the  words  one  by 
one.  And  as  he  did  so  he  laughed  aloud,  and  then  cried  to 
himself,  and  then  laughed  once  more.  "  She  is  well  and 
happy,  and  looking  lovelj',  and,  if  she  does  not  write,  don't 
think  she  is  forgetting  you." 

"  God  bless  her.  And  God  bless  him,  too.  God  bless  them 
both  ! " 

He  went  up  on  deck  again,  for  he  could  not  rest  in  one 
place  long.  There  was  a  breeze  now,  and  he  filled  his  lungs 
and  blew  and  blew.  The  island  was  dying  down  over  the  sea 
in  a  pale  light  of  silver  gvej.  An  engineman  and  a  stoker 
were  leaning  over  the  bulwark  to  cool  themselves. 

""  Happy  enough  now,  sir,  eh  ? " 

"Happy  as  a  sand-boy,  mate,  only  mortal  hungry.  Tiffin 
you  say  ?  Aw,  the  heart  has  its  hunger  same  as  anything 
else,  and  mine  has  been  on  short  commons  these  five  years 
and  better.  See  that  island  there,  lying  like  a  salmon  gull 
atop  of  the  water  ?  Looks  as  if  she  might  dip  under  it,  doesn't 
she  ?  That's  my  home,  my  native  land,  as  the  man  says,  and 
only  three  weeks  ago  I  wasn't  looking  to  see  the  thundering 
ould  thing  again  ;  but  God  is  good,  you  see,  and  I  am  mid- 
dling fit  for  all.  I'm  a  Manxman  myself,  mate,  and  I've  got 
a  lil  Manx  woman  that's  waiting  for  me  yonder.  It's  only  an 
ould  shirt  I'm  bringing  her  to  patch,  as  the  saying  is,  but  she'll 
be  that  joyful  you  never  seen.     It's  bad  to  take  a  woman  by 


II 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  J51 

surprise,  thoiigli — these  nervous  creatures — 'sterics,  you  see — 
I'll  seud  her  a  tallygraph  from  the  Stage.  My  sakcs  !  the  joy 
she'll  be  taking  of  that  boy,  too  !  He'll  be  getting  s'xpence 
for  himself  and  a  drink  of  butter-milk.  It's  always  the  way 
of  these  poor  HI  things — can't  stand  no  good  news  at  all — 
people  coming  home  and  the  like — not  much  worth,  these 
women — crying  reglar — can't  help  it.  Well,  you  see,  they're 
tender-hearteder  than  us,  and  when  anybody's  been  five  years 
...  Be  gough,  we're  making  way,  though  !  The  island's 
going  under,  for  sure.  Or  is  it  my  eyes  that  isn't  so  clear 
since  my  bit  of  a  bullet-wound  !  Aw,  God  is  good,  tremen- 
jous  !  " 

The  breaking  voice  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  engine-men 
turned  about,  but  the  passenger  was  stumbling  down  the  cab- 
in stairs. 

"  If  ever  a  man  came  back  from  the  dead  it's  that  one,"  said 
both  men  together. 


PART   III. 
MAN  AND    WOMAN 


I. 

Philip  was  vanquished,  and  he  knew  it,  but  he  was  not 
daunted,  he  was  not  distressed.  To  have  resisted  the  self- 
abandonment  of  Kate's  love  would  have  been  monstrous. 
Therefore,  he  had  done  no  wrong,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of.  But  when  he  reached  Ballure  he  did  not  dash 
into  Auntie  Nan's  room,  according  to  his  wont,  though  a  light 
was  burning  there,  and  he  could  hear  the  plop  and  click  of 
thread  and  needle  ;  he  crept  upstairs  to  his  own,  and  sat  down 
to  write  a  letter.     It  v.-as  the  tirst  of  his  love  letters. 

''I  shall  count  the  days,  the  hoars,  and  the  minutes  until 
w^e  meet  again,  ray  darling,  and  I  shall  be  constantly  asking 
what  time  it  is.  And  seeing  we  must  be  so  much  apart,  let  us 
contrive  a  means  of  being  together,  nevertheless.  Listen  ! — 
I  whisper  the  secret  in  your  ear.  To-morrow  night  and  every 
night  eat  your  supper  at  eight  o'clock  exactly  ;  I  will  do  the 
same,  and  so  we  shall  be  supping  in  each  other's  company,  my 
little  wife,  though  twenty  miles  divide  us.  If  any  body  asks 
me  to  supper,  I  will  refuse  in  order  that  I  may  sup  with  you. 
'  I  am  promised  to  a  friend,'  I'll  say,  and  then  I'll  sit  down  in 
my  rooms  alone,  but  you  will  be  with  me." 

Tingling  with  delight,  he  wrote  this  letter  to  Kate,  though 
less  than  an  hour  parted  from  her,  and  went  out  to  post  it. 
He  was  going  upstairs  again,  steadily,  on  tiptoe,  his  head  half 
aside  and  his  face  over  his  shoulder,  when  Auntie  Nan's  voice 
came  from  the  blue  room — "Philip  !  " 

He  returned  with  a  sheepish  look,  and  a  sense,  never  felt 
before,  of  l)eing  naked,  so  to  speak.  But  Auntie  Nan  did  not 
look  at  him.  She  was  working  a  lamb  on  a  sampler,  and  she 
reached  over  the  frame  to  take  something  out  of  a  drawer  and 

(152) 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  2^3 

hand  it  to  him.     It  was  a  medallion  of  a  young  child— a  boy, 
with  long  fair  curis  like  a  girl's,  and  a  face  like  sunshine. 

"  Was  it  father,  Auntie  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  a  French  painter  who  came  ashore  with  Tliurlot 
painted  it  for  grandfather." 

Philip  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  was  more  than  ever  sure 
that  Auntie  Nan  had  heard  something.  Such  were  her  tender 
ways  of  warning  him.     He  could  not  be  vexed. 

"I'm  sleepy  to-night,  Auntie,  and  you  look  tired  too. 
You've  been  waiting  up  for  me  again.  Now,  you  really  must 
not.     Besides,  it  limits  one's  freedom." 

"  That's  nothing,  Philip.  You  said  you  would  come  home 
after  calling  on  the  poor  Deemster,  and  so " 

"He's  in  a  bad  way,  Auntie.  Drink— delirium — such  a 
wreck.     Well,  good  night  !  " 

"  Did  you  read  the  letters,  dear  ? " 

"Oh,  yes.  Father's  letters.  Yes,  I  read  them.  Good 
night." 

"Aren't  they  beautiful  ?  Haven't  they  the  very  breath  of 
ambition  and  enthusiasm  ?  But  poor  father  !  How  soon  the 
brightness  melted  av/ay  !  He  never  repined,  though.  Oh, 
no,  never.  Indeed,  he  used  to  laugh  and  joke  at  our  dreams 
and  our  castles  in  the  air.  '  You  must  do  it  all  yourself,  Nan- 
nie ;  you  shall  have  all  the  cakes  and  ale.'  Yes,  when  he  was 
a  dying  man  he  would  joke  like  that.  But  sometimes  he 
would  grow  serious,  and  then  he  would  say, '  Give  little  Philip 
some  for  all.  He'll  deserve  it  more  than  me.  Oh,  God,'  he 
would  say,  'let  me  think  to  myself  when  I'm  there,  you've 
missed  the  good  things  of  life,  but  your  sou  has  got  them ;  you 
are  here,  but  he  is  on  the  heights  ;  lie  still,  thou  poor  aspiring 
heart,  lie  still  in  your  grave  and  rest.'  " 

Philip  felt  like  a  bird  struggling  in  the  meshes  of  a  net. 

"  My  father  was  a  poet.  Auntie,  trying  to  be  a  man  of  the 
world.  That  was  the  real  mischief  in  his  life,  if  you  think  of 
it." 

Auntie  Nan  looked  up  with  her  needle  at  poise  above  the 
sampler,  and  said  in  a  nervous  voice,  "The  real  mischief  of 
your  father's  life,  Philip,  was  love — what  they  call  love.  But 
love  is  not  that.  Love  is  peace  and  virtue,  and  right  living, 
and  that  is  only  madness  and  frenzy,  and  when  people  wake 
up  from  it  they  wake  up  as  from  a  nightmare.     Men  talk  of  it 


15i  THE   MANXMAX.- 

as  a  holy  thing— it  is  unholy.  Books  are  written  in  praise  of 
it — I  would  have  such  books  burnt.  When  anybody  falls  to 
it,  he  is  like  a  blind  man  who  has  lost  his  guide,  tottei'ing 
straight  to  the  precipice.  Women  fall  to  it  too.  Yes,  good 
women  as  well  as  good  men  ;  I  have  seen  them  tempted '' 

Philip  was  certain  of  it  now.  Some  one  had  been  prying 
upon  him  at  Sulby.  He  was  angry,  and  his  anger  spent  itself 
on  Auntie  Nan  in  a  torrent  of  words.  "  You  are  wrong,  Aunt 
Anne,  quite  wrong.  Love  is  the  one  lovely  thing  in  life.  It 
is  beauty,  it  is  poetry.  Call  it  passion  if  you  will — what 
would  the  world  be  like  without  it  ?  A  place  where  every 
human  heart  would  be  an  island  standing  alone  ;  a  place 
without  children,  without  joy,  without  merriment,  without 
laughter.  No,  no  ;  Heaven  has  given  us  love,  and  we  are 
wrong  when  we  try  to  put  it  away.  We  cannot  put  it  away, 
and  when  we  make  the  attempt  we  are  punished  for  our  pride 
and  arrogance.  It  ought  to  be  enough  for  us  to  let  heaven 
decide  wliether  we  are  to  be  great  men  or  little  men.  and  to 
decide  for  ourselves  whether  w^e  are  to  be  good  men  and  happy 
men.  And  the  greatest  happiness  of  life  is  love.  Heaven 
v/ould  have  to  work  a  miracle  to  enable  us  to  live  without  it. 
But  Heaven  does  not  work  such  a  miracle,  because  the  great- 
est miracle  of  heaven  is  love  itself." 

The  needle  hand  of  Auntie  Nan  was  trembling  above  her 
sampler,  and  her  lips  were  twitching. 

"You  are  a  young  man  yet,  Philip,"  she  faltered,  "but  I 
am  an  old  lady  now,  dear,  and  I  have  seen  the  fruits  of  the 
intoxication  you  call  passion.  Oh,  have  I  not,  have  I  not  ? 
It  wrecks  lives,  ruins  prospects,  breaks  up  homes,  sets  father 
against  son,  and  brother  against  brother " 

Philip  would  give  her  no  chance.  He  was  tramping  across 
the  room,  and  he  burst  out  with,  "You  are  wrong  again. 
Auntie.  You  are  always  w^rong  in  these  matters,  because  you 
are  always  thinking  from  the  particular  to  the  general — you 
are  always  thinking  of  my  father.  What  you  have  been 
calling  my  father's  fall  was  really  his  fate.  He  deserved  it. 
If  he  had  been  fit  for  the  high  destiny  he  aspired  to — if  he 
had  been  fit  to  be  a  judge,  he  would  not  have  fallen.  That  he 
did  fall  is  proof  enough  that  he  was  not  fit.  God  did  not  in- 
tend it.  My  father's  aspirations  w^ere  not  the  call  of  a  stern 
vocation,  they  were  mere  poetic  ambition.     If  he  had  ever  by 


MAN   zVND   WOMAN.  I55 

great  ill-fortune  lived  to  be  made  Deemster,  he  would  have 
found  himself  out,  and  the  island  would  have  found  him  out, 
and  you  yourself  would  have  found  him  out,  and  all  the  world 
would  have  been  undeceived.  As  a  poet  he  might  have  been 
a  great  man,  but  as  a  Deemster  he  must  have  been  a  mockery, 
a  hypocrite,  an  impostor,  and  a  sham." 

A.intie  Nan  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  look  of  fright  on  her 
sweet  old  face,  and  something  dropi^ed  with  a  clank  on  to  the 
floor. 

"  Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  if  I  thought  you  could  ever  repeat  the 
error " 

But  Philip  gave  her  no  time  to  finish.  Tossing  his  dis- 
ordered hair  from  his  forehead,  he  swung  out  of  the  room.     » 

Being  alone,  he  began  to  collect  himself.  Was  it,  in  sober 
fact,  he  who  had  spoken  like  that  ?  Of  his  father  too  ?  To 
Auntie  Nan  as  well  ?  He  saw  how  it  was  ;  he  had  been 
speaking  of  his  father,  but  he  had  been  thinking  of  himself  ; 
he  had  been  struggling  to  justify  himself,  to  reconcile, 
strengthen,  and  fortify  himself.  But  in  doing  so  he  had  been 
breaking  an  idol,  a  life-long  idol,  his  ow^n  idol  and  Auntie 
Nan's. 

He  stumbled  downstairs  in  a  rush  of  remorse,  and  burst 
again  into  the  room  crying  in  a  broken  voice,  ''  Auntie  ! 
Auntie  ! " 

But  the  room  was  empty  ;  the  lamp  was  turned  down  ;  the 
sampler  was  pushed  aside.  Something  crunched  under  his 
foot,  and  he  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  the  medallion, 
and  it  was  cracked  across.  The  accident  terrified  him.  His 
skin  seemed  to  creep.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  trodden  on  his 
father's  face.  Putting  the  broken  picture  into  his  pocket,  he 
turned  about  like  a  guilty  man  and  crept  silently  to  bed  in 
the  darkness. 

But  the  morning  brought  him  solace  for  the  pains  of  the 
night — it  brought  him  a  letter  from  Kate. 

"The  Melliah  is  over  at  long,  long  last,  and  I  am  allowed 
to  be  alone  with  my  thoughts.  They  sang  'Keerie  fu 
Snaighty '  after  you  left,  and  '  The  King  can  only  love  his 
wife.  And  I  can  do  the  sa-a-me,  And  I  can  do  the  same.'  But 
there  is  really  nothing  to  tell  you,  for  nothing  happened  of 
the  slightest  consequence.  Good  night  !  I  am  going  to  bed 
after  I  have  posted  this  letter  at  the  bridge.  Two  hours  hence 
11 


156  THE  MANXMAN. 

you  will  appear  to  me  in  sleep,  unless  I  lie  that  long  awake  to 
think  of  you.  I  generally  do.  Good-bye,  my  dear  lord  and 
master  !  You  will  let  me  know  what  you  think  best  to  be 
done.  Your  difRculties  alarm  me  terribly.  You  see,  dear,  we 
two  are  about  to  do  something  so  much  out  of  the  common. 
Good  night  !  I  lift  my  head  that  you  may  give  me  another 
kiss  on  the  eyes,  and  here  are  two  for  yours." 

Then  there  were  empty  brackets  [     ],  which  Kate  had  put 
her  lips  to,  expecting  Philip  to  do  the  same. 


II 

Philip  was  going  into  his  chambers  in  Douglas  that  morn- 
ing when  he  came  upon  a  messenger  from  Government  House 
in  stately  intercourse  with  his  servant.  His  Excellency 
begged  him  to  step  up  to  Onchan  immediately,  and  to  remain 
for  lunch. 

The  Governor's  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  Philip  got 
into  it.  He  was  not  excited  ;  he  remembered  his  agitation  at 
the  Govei'nor  s  former  message  and  smiled.  On  leaving  his 
own  rooms  he  had  not  forgotten  to  order  suj^per  for  eight 
o'clock  precisely. 

He  found  the  Governor  polite  and  expansive  as  usual.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  room  hung  round  with  ponderous  portraits  of 
former  Governors,  m.ost  of  them  in  frills  and  ruffles,  and  one 
vast  picture  of  King  George. 

"You  will  have  heard,"  he  said,  "that  our  northern  Deem- 
ster is  dead." 

"  Is  he  so  ?"  said  Philip.  "  I  saw  him  at  one  o'clock  yes- 
terday." 

"  He  died  at  two  ? "  said  the  Governor. 

"  Poor  man.  poor  man  ! ''  said  Philip. 

That  was  all.  Not  a  tremble  of  the  eyelid,  not  a  quiver  of 
the  lip. 

"You  are  aware  that  the  office  is  a  Crown  appointment  ?" 
said  the  Governor.  "Applications  are  made,  you  know,  to 
the  Home  Office,  but  it  is  probable  that  mj^  advice  may  be 
asked  by  the  Secretary  in  his  selection.  I  may,  perhaps,  be 
of  use  to  a  candidate." 

Philip  gave  no  sign,  and  the  Governor'  shifted  his  leg  and 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  157 

continued  with  a  smile,  "  Certainly  that  appears  to  be  the  im- 
pression of  your  brother  advocates,  Mr.  Christian  ;  they  are 
about  me  already,  like  wasps  at  a  glue-pot.  I  will  not  ques- 
tion but  you'll  soon  be  one  of  them." 

Philip  made  a  gesture  of  protestation,  and  the  Governor 
waved  his  hand  and  smiled  again.  "  Oh,  I  shan't  blame  you  ; 
young  men  are  ambitious.  It  is  natural  that  they  should  wish 
to  advance  themselves  in  life.  In  your  case,  too,  if  I  may  say 
so,  there  is  the  further  spur  of  a  desire  to  recover  the  position 
your  family  once  held,  and  lately  lost  through  the  mistake  or 
misfortune  of  your  father." 

Philip  bowed  gravely,  but  said  nothing. 

"  That,  no  doubt,"  said  the  Governor,  ''  would  be  a  fact  in 
your  favour.  The  great  fact  against  you  would  be  tliat  you 
are  still  so  young.     Let  me  see,  is  it  eight-and  twenty  ? " 

"  Twenty-six,"  said  Philip. 

"  No  more  ?  Only  six-and-twenty  ?  And  then,  successful 
as  your  career  has  been  thus  far— perhaps  I  should  say  distin- 
guished or  even  brilliant— you  are  still  unsettled  in  life." 

Philip  asked  if  his  Excellency  meant  that  he  was  still  un- 
married. 

"  And  if  I  do,"  the  Governor  replied,  with  pretended  sever- 
ity, "and  if  I  do,  don't  smile  too  broadly,  young  man.  You 
ought  to  know  by  this  time  that  the  personal  equation  counts 
for  something  in  this  old-fashioned  island  of  yours.  Now,  the 
late  Deemster  was  an  example  which  it  would  be  perilous  to 
repeat.  If  it  were  repeated,  I  know  who  would  hear  of  the 
blunder  every  day  of  his  life,  and  it  wouldn't  be  the  Home 
Secretary  either.  Deemster  Mylrea  was  called  upon  to  punish 
the  crimes  of  drink,  and  he  was  himself  a  drunkard  ;  to  try 
the  offences  of  sensuality,  and  he  was  himself  a  sensualist." 

Philip  could  not  help  it — he  gave  a  little  crack  of  laughter. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  Governor  hastily,  "  you  are  in  no 
danger  of  his  excesses  ;  but  you  will  not  be  a  safe  candidate 
to  recommend  until  you  have  placed  yourself  to  all  appear- 
ances out  of  the  reach  of  thrm.  '  Beware  of  these  Christians,' 
said  the  great  Derby  to  his  son  ;  and  pardon  me  if  I  revive 
the  warning  to  a  Christian  himself." 

The  colour  came  strong  into  Philip's  face.  Even  at  that 
moment  he  felt  angry  at  so  coarse  a  version  of  his  father's 
fault. 


158  THE   MANXMAN. 

"You  mean,"  said  he,  "that  we  are  apt  to  marry  im- 
Tvisely." 

"  I  do  that,"  said  the  Governor. 

"  There's  no  telling,"  said  Philip,  with  a  faint  crack  of  his 
fingers  ;  and  the  Grovernor  frowned  a  little— the  pock-marks 
seemed  to  spread. 

"  Of  course,  all  this  is  outside  my  duty,  Mr.  Christian  —I 
needn't  tell  you  that  ;  but  I  feel  an  interest  in  you,  and  I've 
done  you  some  services  already,  though  naturally  a  young 
man  will  think  he  has  done  everything  for  himself.  Ah  ! " 
he  said,  rising  from  his  seat  at  the  sound  of  a  gong,  "  luncheon 
is  ready.  Let  us  join  the  ladies."  Then,  with  one  hand  on 
Philip's  shoulder  familiarly,  "only  a  word  more,  Mr.  Chris- 
tian. Send  in  your  application  immediately,  and — take  the 
advice  of  an  old  fiddler — marry  as  soon  afterwards  as  may  he. 
But  with  your  prospects  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to  walk  care- 
fully. If  she's  English,  so  much  the  better  ;  but  if  she's 
Manx— take  care." 

Philip  lunched  with  the  Governor's  wife,  who  told  him 
she  remembered  his  grandfather  ;  also  with  his  unmarried 
daughter,  who  said  she  had  heard  him  speak  for  the  fishermen 
at  Peel.  An  official  "  At  home,"  the  last  of  the  summer,  was 
to  be  held  in  the  garden  that  afternoon,  and  Philip  was  in- 
vited to  remain.  He  did  so,  and  thereby  witnessed  the  as- 
saults of  the  wasps  at  the  glue-pot.  They  buzzed  about  the 
Governor,  they  buzzed  about  his  wife,  they  buzzed  about  his 
dog  and  about  a  tame  deer,  which  took  gra])es  from  the  hands 
of  the  guests. 

An  elderly  gentleman,  sitting  alone  in  a  carriage,  drove  up 
to  the  lawn.  It  was  Peter  Christian  Ballawhaine,  looking 
feebler,  whiter,  and  more  splay-footed  than  before.  Philip 
stepped  up  to  his  uncle  and  offered  his  arm  to  alight  by. 
P>ut  the  Ballawhaine  brushed  it  aside  and  pushed  through  to 
the  Governor,  to  v  horn  he  talked  incessantly  for  some  min- 
utes of  his  son  Eoss,  saying  he  had  sent  for  him  and  would 
like  to  present  him  to  his  Excellency. 

If  Philip  lacked  enjoyment  of  the  scene,  if  his  face  lacked 
heart  and  happiness,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  his  host.  "  Will 
you  not  take  Lady  So-and-so  to  have  tea  ? "  the  Governor 
would  say  ;  and  presently  Philip  found  himself  in  a  circle  of 
official  wifodom,  whose  husbands  had  boon  made  ^Cnights  by 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  159 

the  Queen,  and  themselves  made  Ladies  by — God  knows 
whom.     The  talk  was  of  the  late  Deemster. 

"  Such  a  life  !     It's  a  mercy  he  lasted  so  long  !  " 

"A  pity,  you  mean,  my  dear,  not  to  be  hard  on  him 
either." 

"  Poor  thing  !  He  ought  to  have  married.  Such  a  man 
wants  a  wife  to  look  after  him.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Christian  ? " 

''^Why,"  said  a  white-haired  dame,  "  have  you  never  heard 
of  his  great  romance  ?  " 

''  Ah !  tell  us  of  that.     Who  was  the  lady  ?  " 

"  The  lady "  there  was  a  pause  ;  the  white-haired  dame 

coughed,  smiled,  closed  her  little  ferret  eyes,  dropped  her 
voice,  and  said  with  mock  gravity,  "  The  lady  was  the  black- 
smith's daughter,  dearest."  And  then  there  w^as  a  merry  trill 
of  laughter. 

Philip  felt  sick,  bowled  to  his  hosts,  and  left.  As  he  was 
going  off,  his  uncle  intercepted  him,  holding  out  both  hands. 

"How's  this,  Philip?  You  never  come  to  Ballawhaine 
now.  I  see  !  Oh,  I  see  !  Too  busy  witii  the  w^omen  to  re- 
member an  old  man.  They're  all  talking  of  you.  Putting 
the  comather  on  them,  eh?    I  know,  I  kuow  ;  don't  tell  me." 


HI. 

Philip's  way  home  lay  through  the  tov/n,  but  he  made  a 
circuit  of  the  country,  across  Onchan,  so  heartsick  was  he,  so 
utterly  choked  with  bitter  feelings.  He  felt  as  if  all  the  angels 
and  devils  together  must  be  making  a  mock  at  him.  The 
thing  he  had  worked  for  through  five  heavy  years,  the  end  he 
had  aimed  at,  the  goal  he  had  fought  for,  was  his  already— his 
for  the  stretching  out  of  his  hand.  Yet  now  that  it  was  his, 
he  could  not  have  it.  Oh,  the  mockery  of  his  fate  !  Oh,  the 
irony  of  his  life  !     It  was  shrieking,  it  was  frantic  ! 

Then  his  bolder  spirit  seemed  to  say,  "What  is  all  this 
childish  fuming  about?  Fortune  comes  to  you  with  both 
hands  full.  Be  bold,  and  you  may  have  both  the  wish  of 
your  soul  and  the  desire  of  your  heart — both  the  Deemster- 
ship  and  Kate." 

It  was  impossible  to  believe  that.     If  he  married  Kate,  the 


100  THE   MANXMAN. 

Governor  would  not  recommend  him  as  Deemster.  Had  he 
not  admitted  that  he  stood  in  some  fear  of  the  public  opinion 
of  the  island  ?  And  was  it  not  conceivable  thst,  besides  the 
unselfish  interest  which  the  Governor  had  shown  in  him, 
there  was  even  a  personal  one  that  would  operate  more  power- 
fully than  fear  of  the  old-fashioned  Manx  conventions  to  pre- 
vent any  recommendation  of  the  husband  of  the  wrong 
woman  ?  At  one  moment  a  vague  meiQory  rose  before  Philip, 
as  he  crossed  the  fields,  of  the  lunch  at  Government  House,  of 
the  Governor's  wife  and  daughter,  of  their  coiu'tesy  and 
boundless  graciousness.  At  the  next  moment  he  had  drawn 
up  sharply,  with  pangs  of  self-contempt,  hating  himself,  loath- 
ing himself,  swearing  at  himself  for  a  mean-souled  ingrate,  as 
he  kicked  up  the  grass  and  the  turf  beneath  it.  But  the  idea 
had  taken  root.  He  could  not  help  it ;  the  Governor's  inter- 
est went  for  nothing  in  his  reckoning. 

''  What  a  fool  you  are,  Philip,"  something  seemed  to  whis- 
per out  of  the  darkest  corner  of  his  conscience  ;  "  take  the 
Deemstership  first,  and  marry  Kate  afterwai'ds."  But  it  was 
impossible  to  think  of  that  either.  Say  it  could  be  done  by 
any  arts  of  cunning  or  duplicity,  what  then  ?  Then  there 
were  the  high  walls  of  custom  and  prejudice  to  surmount. 
Philip  remembered  the  garden-party,  and  saw  that  they  could 
never  be  surmounted.  The  Deemster  who  slapped  the  con- 
ventions in  the  face  would  suffer  for  it.  He  would  be  taboo 
to  half  the  life  of  the  island — in  public  an  official,  in  private 
a  recluse.  An  icy  picture  rose  before  his  mind's  eye  of  the 
woman  who  would  be  his  wife  in  her  relations  with  the  ladies 
he  haa  just  left.  She  might  be  their  superior  in  education, 
certainly  in  all  true  manners,  and  in  natural  grace  and  beauty, 
in  sweetness  and  charm,  their  mistress  beyond  a  dream  of 
comparison.  But  they  would  never  forget  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  country  innkeeper,  and  every  little  cobble  in 
the  rickety  pyramid,  even  from  the  daughter  of  the  inn- 
lioeper  in  the  tovrn,  would  iDok  down  on  her  as  from  a 
throne. 

He  could  see  them  leaving  their  cards  at  his  door  and  driv- 
ing huiTiedly  off.  They  must  do  that  much.  It  was  the  bitter 
pill  which  the  Deemster's  doings  made  them  swallow.  Then 
he  could  see  his  wife  sitting  alone,  a  miserable  woman,  despised 
envied,  isolated,  shut  off  from  her  own  class  by  lier  marriage 


MAN   AND    WOMAN,  IQI 

with  the  Deemster,  and  from  his  class  by  the  Deemster's  mar- 
riage with  her.  Again,  he  could  see  himself  too  powerful  to 
offend,  too  dangerous  to  ignore,  going  out  on  his  duties  without 
cheer,  and  returning  to  his  wife  without  company.  Finally,  he 
remembered  his  father  and  his  mother,  and  he  cjuld  not  help 
but  picture  himself  sitting  at  home  with  Kate  five  years  after 
their  marriage,  when  the  first  happiness  of  each  other's  society 
had  faded,  had  staled,  had  turned  to  the  wretchedness  of  starva- 
tion in  its  state  of  siege.  Or  perhaps  going  out  for  walks  with 
her,  just  themselves,  alv/ays  themselves  only,  they  two  to- 
gether, this  evening,  last  evening,  and  to-morrow  evening  ; 
through  the  streets  crowded  by  visitors,  down  the  harbour 
where  the  fishermen  congregate,  across  the  bridge  and  over 
the  head  between  sea  and  sky;  people  bowing  to  them  re- 
spectfully, rigidly,  freezingly ;  people  nudging  and  whispering 
and  looking  their  v\^ay.  Oh,  God,  what  end  could  come  of 
such  an  abject  life  but  that,  beginning  by  being  unhappy,  they 
should  descend  to  being  bad  as  well  ? 

"  What  a  fuss  you  are  making  of  things,"  said  the  voice 
again,  but  more  loudly.  "  This  hubbub  only  means  that  you 
can't  have  your  cake  and  eat  it.  Very  well,  take  Kate,  and 
let  the  Deemstership  go  to  perdition." 

There  was  not  much  comfort  in  that  counsel,  for  it  made 
no  reckoning  with  the  certainty  that,  if  marriage  with  Kate 
would  prevent  him  from  being  Deemster,  it  would  prevent  him 
from  being  anything  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  As  it  had  happened 
with  his  father,  so  it  would  happen  with  him — there  would  be 
no  standing  ground  in  the  island  for  the  man  who  had  delib- 
erately put  himself  outside  the  pale. 

"  Don't  w^orry  me  with  silly  efforts  to  draw  a  line  so 
straight.  If  you  can't  have  Kate  and  the  Deemstership  to- 
gether, and  if  you  can't  have  Kate  without  the  Deemstership, 
there  is  only  one  thing  left — the  Deemstership  without  Kate. 
You  must  take  the  office  and  forego  the  girl.  It  is  your  duty, 
your  necessity." 

This  was  how  Philip  put  it  to  himself  at  length,  and  the 
daylight  had  gone  by  that  time,  and  he  was  walking  in  the 
dark.  But  the  voice  which  had  been  pleading  on  his  side  now 
protested  on  hers. 

"Don't  prate  of  duty  and  necessity.  You  mean  self-love 
and  self-interest.     Man,  be  honest.     Because  this  woman  is  au 


1(32  THE   MAXXMAX. 

obstacle  in  your  career,  you  would  sacrifice  her.  It  is  bound- 
less, pitiles'^.  selfishness.  Suppose  you  abandon  her,  dare  you 
think  of  her  without  shame  !  She  loves  you,  she  trusts  you, 
and  she  has  given  you  proof  of  her  love  and  trust.  Hold  your 
tongue.  Don't  dare  to  whisper  that  nobody  knows  it  but  you 
and  her — that  you  will  be  silent,  that  she  will  have  no  tempta- 
tion to  speak.  She  loves  you.  She  has*given  you  all.  God 
bJess  her  !  " 

Affectionate  pity  swept  down  the  selfish  man  in  him.  As 
the  lights  of  the  town  appeared  on  his  path,  he  was  saying  to 
himself  boldly,  "Since  either  way  there  is  trouble,  I'll  do  as  I 
said  last  night — I'll  leave  Heaven  to  decide  whether  I'm  to  be 
a  great  man  or  a  little  man,  and  decide  for  myself  whether 
I'm  to  be  a  true  man  or  a  happy  man.  I'll  take  my  heart  in 
my  hand  and  go  right  forward." 

In  this  temper  he  returned  to  his  chambers.  The  rooms 
fronted  to  Athol  Street,  but  backed  on  to  the  churchyard  of 
St.  George's.  They  were  quiet,  and  not  overlooked.  His  lamp 
was  lit.     The  servant  was  laying  the  cloth. 

''  Lay  covers  for  two,  Jemmy,"  said  Philip.  Then  he  began 
to  hum  something. 

Presently,  in  feeling  for  his  keys,  his  fingers  touched  an 
unfamiliar  substance  in  his  pocket.  He  remembered  what  it 
was.  It  was  the  cracked  medallion  of  his  father.  He  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  it.  Unlocking  a  chest,  he  buried  at  the 
bottom  under  a  pile  of  winter  clothing. 

This  recalled  a  possession  yet  more  painful,  and  going  to  a 
desk,  he  drew  out  the  packet  of  his  father's  letters  and  pro- 
ceeded to  hide  them  away  with  the  medallion.  As  he  did  so 
his  hand  trembled,  his  limbs  shook,  he  felt  giddy,  and  he 
thought  the  voice  that  had  tormented  him  with  conflicting 
taunts  was  ringing  in  his  ears  again.  "Bury  him  deep  ! 
Bury  your  father  out  of  all  sight  and  all  remembrance.  Bury 
his  love  of  you,  his  hopes  of  you,  his  expectations  and  dreams 
of  you.     Bury  and  forget  him  for  ever." 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  banged  down  the  lid 
of  the  chest,  and  relocked  it  as  his  servant  returned  to  the 
room.  The  man  was  a  solemn,  dignified,  and  reticent  person, 
who  had  been  groom  to  the  late  Bishop.  His  gravity  he  had 
acquired  from  his  horses,  his  dignity  from  his  master;  but  his 
reticence  he  had  created  for  himself,  being  a  thing  beyond 


MAN  x\ND   WOMAN.  103 

nature  in  creature  or  man.  His  proper  name  was  Cottier;  he 
had  always  been  known  as  Jem-y-Lord. 

•'Company  not  arrivred,  sir,"  he  said.     "  Wait  or  serve  ?" 

"What  is  the  time  ? ''  said  Philip. 

"  Struck  eight;  but  clock  two  minutes  soon." 

"  Serve  the  supper  at  once,"  said  Philip. 

When  the  dishes  had  been  brought  in  and  the  man  dis- 
missed, Philip,  taking  his  place  at  the  table,  drew  from  his 
button-hole  a  flower  which  he  had  picked  out  of  his  water-bowl 
at  lunch,  and,  first  putting  it  to  his  lips,  he  tossed  it  on  to  the 
empty  place  before  the  chair  which  had  been  drawn  up  op- 
posite.    Then  he  sat  down  to  eat. 

He  ate  little;  and,  do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  keep  his 
mind  from  wandering.  He  thought  of  his  aunt,  and  how  hurt 
she  had  been  the  previous  night ;  of  his  uncle,  and  how  he  had 
snubbed  and  then  slavered  over  him;  of  the  Governor,  and 
how  strange  the  interest  he  had  shown  in  him ;  and  finally,  he 
thought  of  Pete,  and  how  lately  he  was  dead,  and  how  soon 
forgotten. 

In  the  midst  of  these  memories,  all  sad  and  some  bitter, 
suddenly  he  remembered  again  that  he  was  supping  with  Kate. 
Then  he  struggled  to  be  bright  and  even  a  little  gay.  He  knew 
that  she  would  be  taking  her  supper  at  Sulby  at  that  moment, 
thinking  of  him  and  making  believe  that  he  was  with  her. 
So  he  tried  to  think  that  she  was  with  him,  sitting  in  the  chair 
opposite,  looking  across  the  table  between  the  white  cloth  and 
the  blue  lamp-shade,  out  of  her  beaming  eyes,  with  her  rings 
of  dark  hair  dancing  on  her  forehead,  and  her  ripe  mouth 
twitching  merrily.  Then  the  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  be 
filled  with  a  sweet  presence.  He  could  have  fancied  there  was 
a  perfume  of  lace  and  dainty  things.  "  Sweetheart  ! "  He 
laughed — he  hardly  knew  if  it  was  himself  that  had  spoken. 
It  was  dear,  delicious  fooling. 

But  his  eyes  fell  on  the  chest  wherein  he  had  buried  the 
letters  and  the  medallion,  and  his  mind  wandered  again.  He 
thought  of  his  father,  of  his  grandfather,  of  his  lost  inherit- 
ance, and  how  nearly  he  had  reclaimed  the  better  part  of  it, 
and  then  once  more  of  Pete,  crying  aloud  at  last  in  the  coil  of 
his  trouble,  "  Oh,  if  Pete  had  only  lived  !  " 

His  voice  startled  and  his  words  horrified  him.  To  wipe 
out  both  in  the  first  moment  of  recovered  consciousness,  he 


;l(54  THE   MANXMAN. 

filled  his  j^lass  to  the  brim,  and  lifted  it  up,  rising  at  the  same 
time,  looking  across  the  table,  and  saying  in  a  soft  whisper, 
"  Your  health,  darling,  your  health  ! " 

The  bell  rang  from  the  street  door,  and  he  stood  listening 
with  the  wine-glass  in  his  hand.  When  he  knew  anything 
more,  a  voice  at  his  elbow  was  saying  out  of  a  palpitating 
gloom,  "The  gentleman  can't  come,  seemingly;  he  has  sent  a 
telegram." 

It  was  Jem-y-Lord  holding  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

Philip  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read — 

''  Coming  home  by  Ramsey  boat  to-morrow  well  and  hearty 
teU  Kirry  Peat." 

IV. 

Somewhere  in  the  dead  and  vacant  dawn  Philip  went  to 
bed,  worn  out  by  a  night-long  perambulation  of  the  dark 
streets.  He  slept  a  heavy  sleep  of  four  deep  hours,  with  op- 
pressive dreams  of  common  things  swelling  to  enormous  size 
about  him. 

When  Jem-y-Lord  took  the  tea  to  his  master  s  bedroom  in 
the  morning,  the  tray  was  almost  banged  out  of  his  hands  by 
the  clashing  back  of  the  door,  after  he  had  pushed  it  open 
with  his  knee.  The  window  was  half  up,  and  a  cold  sea-breeze 
was  blowing  into  the  room;  yet  the  grate  and  hearth  showed 
that  a  fire  had  been  kindled  in  the  night,  and  his  master  was 
still  sleeping. 

Jem  set  down  his  tray,  lifted  a  decanter  that  stood  on  the 
table,  held  it  to  the  light,  snorted  like  an  old  horse,  nodded  to 
himself  knowingly,  and  closed  the  window. 

Philip  awoke  with  the  noise,  and  looked  around  in  a  be- 
wildered way.  He  was  feeling  vaguely  that  something  had 
happened,  when  the  man  said — 

"The  horse  will  be  round  soon,  sir." 

"What  horse  ? "  said  Philip. 

"  The  horse  you  ride,  sir,"  said  Jem,  and,  with  an  indulgent 
smile,  he  added,  "  the  one  I  ordered  from  Shimmen's  when  I 
posted  the  letter." 

'•What  letter?" 

"  The  letter  you  gave  me  to  post  before  I  went  to  bed." 

All  was  jumbled  and  confused  in  Philip's  mind.     He  was 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  1(55 

obliged  to  make  an  effort  to  remember.  Just  then  tlie  news- 
boys went  shouting'  down  the  street  beyond  the  churchyard: 
"Special  edition— Death  of  the  Deemster." 

Then  everything  came  back.  He  had  written  to  Kate,  ask- 
ing her  to  meet  him  at  Port  Mooar  at  two  o'clock  that  day.  It 
was  then,  and  in  that  lonesome  place,  that  he  had  decided  to 
break  the  news  to  her.  He  must  tell  all ;  he  had  determined 
upon  his  course. 

Without  appetite  he  ate  his  breakfast.  As  he  did  so  he 
heard  voices  from  a  stable-yard  in  the  street.  He  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  out  mechanically.  A  four-wheeled  dogcart 
was  coming  down  the  archway  behind  a  mettlesome  young 
horse  with  silver-mounted  harness.  The  man  driving  it  was 
a  gorgeous  person  in  a  light  Melton  overcoat.  One  of  his 
spatted  feet  vvas  on  the  break,  and  he  had  a  big  cigar  between 
his  teeth.     It  was  Ross  Christian. 

The  last  time  Philip  had  seen  the  man  he  had  fought  him 
for  the  honour  of  Kate.  It  was  like  whips  and  scorpions  to 
think  of  that  now.  Ashamed,  abased,  degraded  in  his  own 
eyes,  he  turned  away  his  head. 


V. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  following  the  Melliah,  Kate, 
turning  in  bed,  kissed  her  hand  because  it  had  held  the  hand 
of  Philip.  When  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  felt  a  great 
happiness.  Opening  her  eyes  and  half  raising  herself  in  bed, 
she  looked  around.  There  were  the  pink  curtains  hanging  like 
a  tent  above  her,  there  were  the  scraas  of  the  thatched  roof,  with 
the  cracking  whitewash  snipping  down  on  the  counterpane, 
there  were  the  press  and  the  wash-hand  table,  the  sheep-skin 
on  the  floor,  and  the  sun  coming  through  the  orchard  window. 
But  everything  was  transfigured,  everything  beautiful,  every- 
thing mysterious.  She  was  like  one  who  had  gone  to  sleep  on 
the  sea,  with  only  the  unattainable  horizon  round  about,  and 
awakened  in  harbour  in  a  strange  land  that  was  warm  and 
lovely  and  full  of  sunshine.  She  closed  her  eyes  again,  so 
that  nothing  might  disturb  the  contemplation  of  the  mystery. 
She  folded  her  round  arms  as  a  pillow  behind  her  head,  her 
limbs  dropped  back  of  their  own  weight,  and  her  mouth  broke 


106  THE   MANXMAN. 

into  a  happy  smile.  Oli,  miracle  of  miracles  !  The  whole 
world  was  changed. 

She  heard  the  clatter  of  pattens  in  the  room  below  ;  it  was 
Nancy  clmrniug  in  the  dairy.  She  heard  shouts  from  beyond 
the  orchard — it  was  her  father  stacking  in  the  haggard  ;  she 
heard  her  mother  talking  in  the  bar,  and  the  mill-wheel 
swishing  in  the  pond.  It  seemed  almost  wonderful  that  the 
machinery  of  ordinary  life  could  be  working  away  the  same 
as  ever. 

Could  she  be  the  same  herself  ?  She  reached  over  for  a 
hand-glass  to  look  at  her  face.  As  she  took  it  off  the  table,  it 
slipped  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and,  falling  face  dowu- 
w^ards,  it  broke.  She  had  a  momentary  pang  at  that  accident 
as  at  a  bad  omen,  but  just  then  Nancy  came  up  with  a  letter. 
It  w^as  the  letter  which  Philip  had  written  at  Ealku'e.  When 
she  w^as  alone  again  she  read  it.  Then  she  put  it  in  her 
bosom.  It  seemed  to  be  haunted  by  the  odour  of  the  gorse, 
the  odour  of  the  glen,  of  the  tholthan,  of  Philip,  and  of  all 
delights. 

A  faint  ghost  of  shame  came  to  frighten  her.  Had  she 
sinned  against  her  sex  ?  Was  it  disgraceful  that  she  had 
wooed  and  not  waited  to  be  won  ?  With  all  his  love  of  her, 
would  Philip  be  ashamed  of  her  also  ?  Her  face  grew  hot. 
She  knew  that  she  w^as  blushing,  and  she  covered  up  her  head 
as  if  her  lover  were  there  to  see.  Such  feai's  did  not  last  long. 
Her  joy  was  too  bold  to  be  afraid  of  tangible  things.  So  over- 
whelming was  her  happiness  that  her  only  fear  was  lest  she 
might  awake  at  some  moment  and  find  that  she  was  asleep 
now.  and  everything  had  been  a  dream. 

That  was  Friday,  and  towards  noon  w^ord  came  from  Kirk 
Michael  that  the  Deemster  had  died  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  before. 

''  Then  they  ought  to  put  Philip  Christian  in  his  place," 
she  said  promptly  ;  '"I'm  sure  no  one  deserves  it  better." 

They  had  been  talking  in  low  tones  in  the  kitchen  with 
their  backs  to  her,  but  faced  about  witii  looks  of  astonishment. 

"  Sakes  alive,  Kirry,"  cried  Nancy,  "  is  it  yourself  it  was  ? 
What  were  you  saying  a  week  ago  ? " 

''Well,  do  you  ex])ect  a  girl  to  be  saying  the  one  thing 
always  ?  "  laughed  Kate. 

"  Aw,  no,"  said  Ca3sar.     "  A  woman's  opinions  isn't  usually 


MAN   AND    WOMAN. 


ir,7 


as  stiff  as  the  tail  of  a  flgliting'  Tom  cat.  They're  more  com- 
ing and  going,  of  a  rule." 

Next  day,  Saturda}^  she  received  Philip's  second  letter,  the 
letter  written  at  Douglas  after  the  supper  and  the  arrival  of 
Pete's  telegram.  It  was  written  crosswise,  in  a  hasty  hand, 
on  a  half-sheet  of  note-paper,  and  was  like  a  postscript,  with- 
out signature  or  superscription  : — 

"Most  urgent.  Must  see  you  immediately.  Meet  me  at 
Port  Mooar  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow.  We  can  talk  there 
without  interruiDtion.  Be  brave,  my  dear.  There  are  serious 
matters  to  discuss  and  arrange." 

The  message  was  curt,  and  even  cold,  but  it  brought  her  no 
disquiet.  Marriage  !  That  wai  the  only  vision  it  conjured 
up.  The  death  of  the  Deemster  had  hastened  things — that 
was  the  meaning  of  the  urgency.  Port  Mooar  was  near  to 
Ballure — that  was  why  she  had  to  go  so  far.  They  would 
have  to  face  gossip,  perhaps  backbiting,  perhaps  even  abuse — 
that  was  the  reason  she  had  to  be  brave.  Why  and  how  the 
Deemster's  death  should  affect  her  marriage  with  Philip  was  a 
matter  she  did  not  puzzle  out.  She  had  vague  memories  of  girls 
marrying  in  delightful  haste  and  sailing  away  with  their  hus- 
bands, and  being  gone  before  you  had  time  to  think  they  were 
to  go.  But  this  new  fact  of  her  life  was  only  a  part  of  the 
great  mystery,  and  Avas  not  to  be  explained  by  everyday  ideas 
and  occurrences. 

Kate  ran  up  to  dress,  and  came  down  like  a  bud  bursting 
into  flower.  She  had  dressed  more  carefully  than  ever. 
Philip  had  great  expectations  ;  he  must  not  be  disappointed. 
Making  the  excuse  of  shopping,  she  was  setting  off  towards 
Ramsey,  when  her  father  shouted  from  the  stable  that  he  was 
for  driving  the  same  way.  The  mare  was  harnessed  to  the 
gig,  and  they  got  up  together. 

Ccesar  had  made  inquiries  and  calculations.  He  had 
learned  that  the  Johannesburg,  from  Cape  Town,  arrived  in 
Liverpool  the  day  before  ;  and  he  concluded  that  Pete's  effects 
would  come  by  the  Peveril,  the  weekly  steamer  to  Ramsay,  on 
Saturday  morning,  The  Peveril  left  Liverpool  at  eight ;  she 
would  be  due  at  three.  Caesar  meant  to  be  on  the  quay  at 
two. 

"  It's  my  duty  as  a  parent,  Kate,"  said  he.  "  What  more 
natural  but  there's  something  for  yourself  ?     It's  my  duty  as  a 


lf]S  THE   MANXMAN. 

pastor,  too,  for  there's  Manx  ones  going  that's  in  danger  of  the 
devil  of  covetousness,  and  it's  doing  the  Lord's  work  to  put 
them  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation.  You  may  exhort  with 
tlicm  till  you're  black  in  the  face,  but  it's  throwing  good 
mone^'  in  the  mud.  Just  chuck !  No  ring  at  all ;  no  way  re- 
sponsivel." 

Kate  was  silent,  and  Caesar  added  familiar]}^  ''  Of  course, 
it's  my  right  too,  for  when  a  man's  birth  is  that  way,  there's 
no  heirship  by  blood,  and  possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law. 
That's  so,  Kate.  You  needn't  be  looking  so  hard.  It's  truth 
enough,  girl.     I've  had  advocate's  opinion." 

Kate  had  looked,  but  had  not  listened.  The  matter  of  her 
father's  talk  was  too  trivial,  it's  interest  was  too  remote.  As 
they  drove,  she  kept  glancing  seaward  and  asking  what  time 
it  was. 

"  Aw,  time  enough  yet,  woman,''  said  Caesar.  ''  No  need 
to  be  unaisy  at  all.  She'll  not  be  round  the  Head  for  an  hour 
anyway.  Will  you  come  along  with  me  to  the  quay,  then  ? 
No  ?    Well,  better  not,  maybe." 

At  the  door  of  a  draper's  she  got  down  from  the  gig,  and 
told  her  father  not  to  wait  for  her  on  going  home.  Caesar 
moistened  his  forefinger  and  held  it  in  the  air  a  moment. 

'"  Then  don't  be  late,"  said  he,  "  there's  weather  com- 
ing." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  she  was  walking  rapidly  up 
Ballure.  Passing  Ballure  House,  she  found  herself  treading 
softly.  It  w^as  like  holy  ground.  She  did  not  look  across  ; 
she  gave  no  sign  ;  there  was  only  a  tremor  of  the  eyelids,  a 
quiv^er  of  the  mouth,  and  a  tightening  of  the  hand  that  held 
her  purse,  as,  with  head  down,  she  passed  on.  Going  by  the 
water-trough,  she  saw  the  bullet-head  of  Black  Tom  looking 
seaward  over  the  hedge  through  a  telescope  encased  in  torn 
and  faded  cloth.  Though  the  man  was  repugnant  to  her,  she 
saluted  him  cheerfully. 

"Fine  day,  Mr.  Quilliam." 

"  It  icas  doing  a  fine  day,  ma'am,  but  the  bees  is  coming 
home,"  said  Tom. 

He  glowered  at  her  as  at  a  scout  of  the  enemy,  but  she  did 
not  mind  tnat.  She  was  very  happy.  The  sun  was  still 
shining.  On  reaching  the  top  of  the  brow,  she  began  to  skip 
and  I'uii  where  the  road  descends  by  Folieu.     Thus,  with  a 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  109 

light  heart  and  a  light  step,  thinking  ill  of  no  one,  in  love 
with  all  the  world,  she  went  hurrying  to  her  doom. 

The  sea  below  lay  very  calm  and  blue.  Notliing  was  to  be 
seen  on  the  water  but  a  line  of  black  smoke  from  the  funnel 
of  a  steamship  which  had  not  yet  risen  above  the  horizon. 


VI. 

Philip  put  up  his  horse  at  the  Hibernian,  a  mile  farther 
on  the  high-road,  and  the  tongue  of  the  landlady,  Mistress 
Looney.  went  like  a  mill-race  v/hile  he  ate  his  dinner.  She 
had  known  three  generations  of  his  family,  and  was  full  of 
stories  of  his  grandfather,  of  his  father,  and  of  himself  in  his 
childhood.  Full  of  facetiae,  too,  about  his  looks,  which  were 
''  rasonable  promising,"  and  about  the  girls  of  Douglas,  who 
were  "  neither  good  nor  middling."  She  was  also  full  of  sage 
counsel,  advising  marriage  with  a  warm  girl  having  "nice 
things  at  her— nice  lands  and  pigs  and  things  " — as  a  ready 
way  to  square  the  "  bobbery  "  of  thirty  years  ago  at  Balla- 
whaine. 

Philip  left  his  plate  half  full,  and  rose  from  the  table  to  go 
down  to  Port  Mooar. 

"  But,  boy  veen,  you've  destroyed  nothing,"  cried  the  land- 
lady. And  then  coaxingly,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  "  You'll 
be  ateing  bits  for  me,  now,  come,  come  !  No  more  at  all  ? 
Aw,  it's  failing  you  are,  Mr.  Philip  !  Going  for  a  walk  is  it  ? 
Take  your  topcoat  then,  for  the  clover  is  closing." 

He  took  the  road  that  Pete  had  haunted  as  a  boy  on  re- 
turning home  from  school  in  the  days  when  Kate  lived  at 
C'ornaa,  going  through  the  network  of  paths  by  the  mill,  and 
over  the  brow  by  Ballajora.  The  new  miller  was  pulling 
down  the  thatched  cottage  in  which  Kate  had  been  born  to 
put  up  a  slate  house.  They  had  built  a  porch  for  shelter  to 
the  chapel,  and  carved  the  figure  of  a  slaughtered  lamb  on  a 
stone  in  the  gable.  Anothei*  lamb— a  living  lamb — was  being 
killed  by  the  butcher  of  Ballajora  as  Philip  went  by  the 
shambles.  The  helpless  creature,  with  its  inverted  head 
swung  downwards  from  the  block,  looked  at  him  with  its 
piteous  eyes,  and  gave  forth  that  distressful  cry  wliich  is  the 


170  THE  MANXMAN. 

last  wild  appeal  of  the  stricken  animal  when  it  sees  death 
near,  and  has  ceased  to  fight  for  life. 

The  air  was  quiet,  and  the  sea  was  calm,  hnt  across  the 
Channel  a  leaden  sky  seemed  to  hover  over  the  English  moun- 
tains, though  they  were  still  light  and  apparently  in  sun- 
shine. As  Philip  reached  Port  Mooar,  a  cart  was  coming  out 
of  it  with  a  load  of  sea-wrack  for  the  land,  and  a  lobster- 
fisher  on  the  beach  was  shipping  his  gear  for  sea. 

"  Quiet  day,"  said  Philip  in  passing. 

"  Pm  not  much  liking  the  look  of  it,  though,"  said  the  fish- 
erman. '*  Mortal  thick  surf  coming  up  for  the  wind  that's 
in."    But  he  slipped  his  boat,  pulled  up  sail,  and  rode  away. 

Philip  looked  at  his  watch  and  then  walked  down  the 
beach.  Coming  to  a  cave,  he  entered  it.  The  sea-wrack  was 
banked  up  in  the  darkness  behind,  and  between  two  stones  at 
the  mouth  there  were  the  remains  of  a  recent  fire.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  the  cave.  It  was  the  cave  of  the  Carasdhoo 
men.  He  could  hear  the  voice  of  Pete  in  its  rumbling 
depths  ;  he  could  hear  and  see  himself.  ''  Shall  we  save  the 
women,  Pete  ? — we  always  do."  "  Aw,  yes,  the  women— and 
the  boys."  The  tenderness  of  that  memory  was  too  much  for 
Philip.  He  came  out  of  the  cave,  and  walked  back  over  the 
shore. 

"  She  will  come  by  the  church,"  he  thought,  and  he 
climbed  the  cliffs  to  look  out.  A  line  of  fir-trees  grew  there, 
a  comb  of  little  misshapen  ghoul-like  things,  stunted  by  the 
winds  that  swept  over  the  seas  in  winter.  In  a  fork  of  one  of 
these  a  bird's  nest  of  last  year  was  still  hanging  ;  but  it  was 
now  empty,  songless,  joyless,  and  dead. 

"  She's  here."  he  told  himself,  and  he  drew  his  breath 
noisily.  A  white  figure  had  turned  the  road  by  the  sundial, 
and  was  coming  on  with  the  step  of  a  greyhound. 

The  black  clouds  above  the  English  mountains  were  heel- 
ing down  on  the  land.  There  was  a  storm  on  the  other  coast, 
though  the  sky  over  the  island  was  still  fine.  The  steamship 
had  risen  above  the  horizon,  and  was  heading  towards  the  bay. 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  I7I 

VII. 

.  She  met  him  on  tlie  hill  slope  with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  kissed 
him.  It  came  into  his  mind  to  draw  away,  but  he  could  not, 
and  he  kissed  her  back.  Then  she  linked  her  arm  in  his,  aud 
they  turned  down  the  beach. 

"  I'm  g-lad  you've  come,"  he  beg'an. 

"  Did  you  ever  dream  I  wouldn't  ? "  she  said.  Her  face 
was  a  smile,  her  voice  was  an  eager  whisper. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Kate — it  is  something 
serious." 

"  Is  it  so  ? "  she  said.     "  So  very  serious  ? " 

She  was  laughing  and  blushing  together.  Didn't  she 
know  what  he  was  going  to  say  ?  Didn't  she  guess  what  this 
serious  something  must  be  ?  To  prolong  the  delicious  sus- 
pense before  hearing  it,  she  pretended  to  be  absoi'bed  in  the 
things  about  her.  She  looked  aside  at  the  sea,  and  up  at  the 
banks,  and  down  at  the  little  dubbs  of  salt  water  as  she  skipped 
across  them,  crying  out  at  sight  of  the  sea-holly,  the  anemone, 
and  the  sea-mouse  shining  like  fire,  but  still  holding  to  Philip's 
arm  and  bounding  and  throbbing  on  it. 

"  You  must  be  quiet,  dear,  and  listen,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  good — so  very  good,"  she  said.  "  But  look  ! 
only  look  at  the  white  horses  out  yonder—  far  out  beyond  the 
steamer.     Davy's  putting  on  the  coppers  for  the  parson,  eh  ? " 

She  caught  the  grave  expression  of  Philip's  face,  and  drew 
herself  up  with  pretended  severity,  saying,  ''  Be  quiet,  Katey. 
Behave  yourself.  Philip  wants  to  talk  to  j^ou— seriously — 
very  seriously." 

Then,  leaning  forward  with  head  aside  to  look  up  into  his 
face,  she  said,  "  Well,  sir,  why  don't  you  begin  ?  Perhaps 
you  think  I'll  cry  out.     I  won't — I  promise  you  I  won't." 

But  she  grew  uneasy  at  the  settled  gra\aty  of  his  face,  and 
the  joy  gradually  died  off  her  own.  When  Philip  spoke,  his 
voice  was  like  a  cracked  echo  of  itself. 

"You  remember  what  you  said,  Kate,  when  I  brought  you 
that  last  letter  from  Kimberley— that  if  next  morning  you 
found  it  was  a  mistake " 

"  Is  it  a  mistake  ? "  she  asked. 

"Becalm,  Kate." 

"I  am  quite  calm,  dear.  I  remember  I  said  it  would  kill 
12 


172  TPIE   MANXMAN. 

me.  But  I  was  very  foolish.  I  should  not  say  so  now.  Is 
Pete  alive  ? " 

She  spoke  without  a  tremor,  and  he  answered  in  a  husky 
whisper,  "Yes." 

Then,  in  a  breaking  voice,  he  said,  "  We  were  very  foolish 
Kate — jumping  so  hastily  to  a  conclusion  was  very  foolish — 
it  was  worse  than  foolish,  it  was  wicked.  I  half  doubted  the 
letter  at  the  time,  but,  God  forgive  me,  I  wanted  to  believe  it, 
and  so " 

"  I  am  glad  Pete  is  living,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  was  aghast  at  her  calmness.  The  irregular  lines  in  his 
face  showed  the  disordered  state  of  his  soul,  but  she  walked 
by  his  side  without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  or  a  tinge  of  colour 
more  than  usual.     Had  she  understood  ? 

''  Look  ! "  he  said,  and  he  drew  Pete's  telegram  from  his 
pocket  and  gave  it  to  her. 

She  opened  it  easily,  and  he  watched  her  while  she  read  it, 
prepared  for  a  cry,  and  ready  to  put  his  arms  about  her  if  she 
fell.  But  there  was  not  a  movement  save  the  motion  of  her 
fingers,  not  a  sound  except  the  crinking  of  the  thin  paper. 
He  turned  his  head  away.  The  sun  was  shining  ;  there  was 
a  steely  light  on  the  firs,  and  here  and  there  a  white  breaker 
was  rising  like  a  sea-bird  out  of  the  blue  surface  of  the  sea. 

'^Well?"  she  said. 

"Kate,  you  astonish  me,"  said  Philip.  "This  comes  on  us 
like  a  thundercloud,  and  you  seem  not  to  realise  it." 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  the  paper  rustled 
on  his  shoulder.  "  My  darling,"  she  said,  "  do  you  love  me 
still  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  love  you,  but " 

"  Then  there  is  no  thundercloud  in  heaven  for  me  now," 
she  said. 

The  simple  grandeur  of  the  girl's  love  shamed  him.  Its 
trust,  its  confidence,  its  indifference  to  all  the  evil  chance  of 
life  if  only  he  loved  her  still,  this  had  been  beyond  him. 
But  he  disengaged  her  arms  and  said,  "  We  must  not  live  in  a 
fool's  paradise,  Kate.     You  promised  yourself  to  Pete " 

"  But,  Philip,"  she  said,  "  that  was  when  I  was  a  child.  It 
was  only  a  half  promise  then,  and  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
doing.  I  didn't  know  what  love  was.  All  that  came  later, 
dearest,  much  later— you  know  when." 


^MAN   AND    WOMAN.  I73 

"  To  Pete  it  is  the  same  thing,  Kate,"  said  Philip.  "  He  is 
coming  home  to  claim  you " 

She  stopped  him  by  getting  in  front  of  him  and  saying, 
Tvith  face  down,  smoothing  his  sleeve  as  she  spoke,  "You  are 
a  man,  Philip,  and  you  cannot  understand.  How  can  you, 
and  how  can  I  tell  you  ?  When  a  girl  is  not  a  woman,  hut 
only  a  child,  she  is  a  ditferent  person.  She  can't  love  any- 
body then— not  really — not  to  say  love,  and  the  promises  she 
makes  can't  count.  It  was  not  I  that  promised  myself  to  Pete 
— if  I  did  promise.  It  was  my  little  sister — the  little  sister  that 
was  me  long,  long  ago,  but  is  now  gone — put  to  sleep  inside 
me  somew^here.     Is  that  very  foolish,  darling  ? " 

"But  think  of  Pete,''  said  Philip  ;  "think  of  him  going 
away  for  love  of  you,  living  five  years  abroad,  toiling,  slaving, 
saving,  encountering  privations,  perhaps  perils,  and  all  for 
you,  all  for  love  of  you.  Then  think  of  him  coming  home 
with  his  heart  full  of  you,  buoyed  up  with  the  hope  of  you, 
thirsting,  starving,  and  yearning  for  you,  and  finding  you 
lost  to  him,  dead  to  him,  worse  than  dead — it  will  kill  him, 
Kate." 

She  was  unmoved  by  the  picture.  "  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I 
do  not  love  him,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  am  sorry — what  else 
can  a  girl  be  when  she  does  not  love  a  young  man  ? " 

"  He  left  me  to  take  care  of  you,  too,  and  you  see— you  see 
by  the  telegram — he  is  coming  home  with  faith  in  my  loyalty. 
How  can  I  tell  him  that  I  have  broken  my  trust  ?  How  can  I 
meet  him  and  explain " 

"  /  know,  Philip.     Say  we  heard  he  was  dead  and " 

"  No,  it  would  be  too  wretched.  It's  only  three  weeks  since 
the  letter  came — and  it  would  not  be  true,  Kate— it  would  re- 
volt me." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  in  a  fond  look  of  shame-faced  love,  and 
said  again,  "J  know,  then— lay  the  blame  on  me,  Philip. 
What  do  I  care  ?  Say  it  was  all  my  fault,  and  I  made  you 
love  me.  I  shan't  care  for  anybody's  talk.  And  it's  true, 
isn't  it  ?    Partly  true,  eh  ? " 

•'If  I  talked  to  Pete  of  temptation  I  should  despise  my- 
self," said  Philip  ;  and  then  she  tlirew  her  head  up  and  said 
proudly — 

"Very  well,  tell  the  truth  itself— the  siinplc  truth,  Philip. 
Say  we  tried  to  be  faithful  and  loyal,  and  all  that,  and  could 


174  THE   MANXMAN. 

not,  because  we  loved  each  other,  and  there  was  no  help 
for  it." 

"  If  I  tell  him  the  truth,  I  shall  die  of  shame,"  said  Philip. 
"  Oh,  there  is  no  way  out  of  this  miserable  tangle.  Whether 
I  cover  myself  with  deceit,  or  strip  myself  of  evasion,  I  shall 
stain  my  soul  for  ever.  I  shall  become  a  base  man,  and  year 
by  year  sink  lower  and  lower  in  the  mire  of  lies  and  deceit." 

She  listened  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  quivering  face,  and 
her  eyelids  fluttered,  and  her  fond  looks  began  to  be  afraid. 

"  Say  that  we  married,"  he  continued ;  "  we  should  never 
forget  that  you  had  broken  your  promise  and  I  my  trust. 
That  memory  would  haunt  us  as  long  as  we  lived.  We  should 
never  know  one  moment's  happiness  or  one  moment's  peace. 
Pete  would  be  a  broken-hearted  man,  perhaps  a  wreck,  per- 
haps— who  knows  ? — dead  of  his  own  hand.  He  would  be  the 
ghost  between  us  always." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  should  be  afraid  of  that  ^ "  she  said. 
"  Indeed,  no.  If  you  were  with  me,  Philip,  and  loved  me  still, 
I  should  not  care  for  all  the  spirits  of  heaven  itself." 

Her  face  was  as  pale  as  death  now,  but  her  great  eyes  were 
shining. 

"  Our  love  would  fail  us,  Kate,"  said  Philip.  "  The  sense 
of  our  guilt  would  kill  it.  How  could  we  go  on  loving  each 
other  v.'ith  a  thing  like  that  about  us  all  day  and  all  night — 
sitting  at  our  table — listening  to  our  talk — standing  by  our 
bed  ?    Oh,  merciful  God  ! " 

The  terror  of  his  vision  mastered  him,  and  he  covered  his 
face  with  both  hands.  She  drew  them  down  again  and  held 
them  in  a  tight  lock  in  her  fingers.  But  the  stony  light  of  his 
eyes  was  more  fearful  to  look  upon,  and  she  said  in  a  troubled 
voice,  "  Do  you  mean,  Philip,  that  we — could— not  marry— 
now?" 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  repeated  the  question,  looking 
up  into  his  face  like  a  criminal  waiting  for  his  sentence — her 
head  bent  forward  and  her  mouth  open. 

"  We  cannot,"  he  muttered.  "  God  help  us,  we  dare  not," 
he  said  ;  and  then  he  tried  to  show  her  again  how  their  mar- 
riage was  impossible,  now  that  Pete  had  come,  without  treason 
and  shame  and  misery.  But  his  words  frayed  ofl"  into  silence. 
He  caught  the  look  of  her  eyes,  and  it  was  like  the  piteous 
look  of  the  lamb  under  the  hands  of  the  butcher. 


MAN    AND    Woman.  I75 

"Is  that  what  you  came  to  tell  me  ?"  she  asked. 

His  reply  died  in  his  throat.  She  divined  rather  than 
heard  it. 

Her  doom  had  fallen  on  her,  but  she  did  not  cry  out.  She 
did  not  yet  realise  in  all  its  fulness  what  had  happened.  It 
was  like  a  bullet-wound  in  battle  ;  first  a  sense  of  air,  almost 
of  relief,  then  a  pang,  and  then  overwhelming  agony. 

They  had  been  walking  again,  but  she  slid  in  front  of  him 
as  she  had  done  before.  Her  arms  crept  up  his  breast  with  a 
caressing  touch,  and  linked  themselves  behind  his  neck. 

"  This  is  only  a  jest,  dearest,"  she  said,  ''  some  test  of  my 
love,  perhaps.  You  wished  to  make  sure  of  me— quite,  quite 
sure — now  that  Pete  is  alive  and  coming  home.  But,  you  see, 
I  want  only  one  to  love  me,  only  one,  dear.  Come,  now,  con- 
fess. Don't  be  afraid  to  say  you  have  been  playing  with  me. 
I  shan't  be  angry  with  you.     Come,  speak  to  me." 

He  could  not  utter  a  word,  and  she  let  her  arms  fall  from 
his  neck;  and  they  walked  on  side  by  side,  both  staring  out  to 
sea.  The  English  mountains  were  black  by  this  time.  A 
tempest  was  raging  on  the  other  shore,  though  the  air  on  this 
side  was  as  soft  as  human  breath. 

Presently  she  stopped,  her  feet  scraped  the  gravel,  and  she 
exclaimed  in  a  husky  tone,  "I  know  what  it  is.  It  is  not 
Pete.  I  am  in  your  way.  That's  it.  You  can't  get  on  with 
me  about  you.  I  am  not  fit  for  you.  The  distance  between 
us  is  too  great." 

He  struggled  to  deny  it,  but  he  could  not.  It  was  part  of 
the  truth.  He  knew  too  w^ell  how  near  to  being  the  whole 
truth  it  was.  Pete  had  come  at  the  last  moment  to  cover  up 
his  conscience,  but  Kate  was  stripping  it  naked  and  showing 
him  the  skeleton. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you,"  she  cried,  "but  wlierc  am  I  ? 
Why  didn't  you  leave  me  alone  ?  Why  did  you  encourage 
me  ?  Yes,  indeed,  encourage  me  !  Didn't  you  say,  though  a 
woman  couldn't  raise  herself  in  life,  a  man  could  lift  her  up 
if  he  only  loved  her  ?  And  didn't  you  tell  me  there  was 
neither  below  nor  above  where  there  was  true  liking,  and  that 
if  a  woman  belonged  to  some  one,  and  some  one  belonged  to 
her,  it  was  God's  sign  that  they  were  equal,  and  everything 
else  was  nothing — pride  was  nothing  and  position  was  nothing 
and  the  whole  world  was  nothing  ?    But  now  I  know  differ- 


176  THE   MANXMAN. 

ent.  The  world  is  between  us.  It  always  has  been  between 
us.  and  you  can  never  belong  to  me.  You  will  go  on  and  rise 
up,  and  I  will  be  left  behind."' 

Then  she  broke  into  frightful  laughter.  "  Oh,  I  have  been 
a  fool !  How  I  dreamt  of  being  happy !  I  knew  I  was  only  a 
poor  ignorant  thing,  but  I  saw  myself  lifted  up  by  the  one  I 
loved.  And  now  I  am  to  be  left  alone.  Oh,  it  is  awful !  Why 
did  you  deceive  me  ?  Yes,  deceive  me  1  Isn't  that  deceiving 
me  ?  You  deceived  me  when  you  led  me  to  think  that 
you  loved  me  more  than  all  the  world.  You  don't  I 
It  is  the  world  itself  you  love,  and  Pete  is  only  your 
excuse." 

As  she  spoke  she  clutched  at  his  arms,  his  hands,  his  breast, 
and  at  her  own  throat,  as  if  something  was  strangling  her. 
He  did  not  answer  her  reproaches,  for  he  knew  well  what 
they  were.  They  were  the  bitter  cry  of  her  great  love,  her 
great  miser\^,  and  her  great  jealousy  of  the  world — the  merci- 
less and  mysterious  power  that  was  luring  him  away.  After 
awhile  his  silence  touched  her,  and  she  came  up  to  him,  full 
of  remorse,  and  said,  "No,  no,  Philip,  you  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach yourself  Avith.  You  did  not  deceive  me  at  all.  I  de- 
ceived myself.  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  led  you  on — I  know 
that.  And  yet  I've  been  saying  these  cruel  things.  You'll 
forgive  me,  though,  will  you  not  ?  A  girl  can't  help  it  some- 
times. Philip.  Are  you  crying  ?  You  are  not  crying,  are 
you  ?  Kiss  me,  Philip,  and  forgive  me.  You  can  do  that, 
can't  you  ? " 

She  asked  like  a  child,  with  her  face  up  and  her  lips  apart. 
He  was  about  to  yield,  and  was  reaching  forvrard  to  touch  her 
forehead,  when  suddenly  the  child  became  the  woman,  and 
she  leapt  upon  his  breast,  and  held  him  fervently,  her  blood 
surging,  her  bosom  exulting,  her  eyes  flaming,  and  her  pas- 
sionate voice  crying,  ''  Philip,  you  are  mine.  No,  I  will  not 
release  you.  I  don't  care  about  your  plans— you  shall  give 
them  up.  I  don't  care  about  your  trust — you  shall  break  it. 
I  don't  care  about  Pete  coming — let  him  come.  The  world 
can  do  Avithout  you— I  cannot.  You  are  mine,  Philip,  and  I 
am  yours,  and  nobody  else's,  and  never  will  be.  You  must 
come  back  to  me.  sooner  or  later,  if  you  go  away.  I  know  it, 
I  feel  it,  it's  in  my  heart.  But  I'll  never  let  you  go.  I  can't, 
I  can't.     Haven't  I  a  right  to  you  ?    Yes,  I  have  a  right. 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  177 

Don't  you  remember  ?  .  .  .  Can  you  ever  forget  ?  .  .  .  My 
husband ! " 

The  last  word  came  muffled  from  his  breast,  where  slie  liad 
buried  her  head  in  the  convulsions  of  her  trembling-  at  the 
moment  when  her  modesty  went  down  in  the  fierce  battle 
with  a  higher  pain.  But  the  plea  which  seemed  to  give  her 
the  right  to  cling  the  closer  made  the  man  to  draw  apart.  It 
was  the  old  deep  tragedy  of  human  love — the  ancient  inequal- 
ity in  the  bond  of  man  and  woman.  What  she  had  thought 
her  conquest  had  been  her  vanquishment.  He  could  not  help 
it — her  last  word  had  killed  everything. 

"  Oh,  God,"  he  groaned,  "  that  is  the  worst  of  all." 

"  Philip,"  she  cried,  "  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

"I  mean  that  neither  can  I  marry  you,  nor  can  you  marry 
Pete.  You  would  carry  to  him  your  love  of  me,  and  bit  by 
bit  he  would  iind  it  out,  and  it  would  kill  him.  It  would  kill 
you,  too,  for  you  have  called  me  your  husband,  and  you  could 
never,  never,  never  forget  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  Pete,"  she  said.  "If  I'm  not  to 
marry  you,  I  don't  want  to  marry  any  one.  But  do  you  mean 
that  I  must  not  marry  at  all— that  I  never  can  now  that " 

The  word  failed  her,  and  his  answer  came  thick  and  indis- 
tinct—"Yes." 

"  And  you,  Philip  ?    What  about  yourself  ? " 

"  As  there  is  no  other  man  for  you,  Kate,"  he  said,  "  so 
there  is  no  other  woman  for  me.  We  must  go  through  the 
world  alone." 

"  Is  this  my  punishment  ?  " 

"It  is  the  punishment  of  both,  Kate,  the  punishment  of 
bothalike." 

Kate  stopped  her  breathing.  Her  clenched  hands  slackened 
away  from  his  neck,  and  she  stepped  back  from  him,  shudder- 
ing with  remorse,  and  despair,  and  shame.  She  saw  herself 
now  for  the  first  time  a  fallen  woman.  Never  before  had  her 
sin  touched  her  soul.     It  was  at  that  moment  she  fell. 

They  had  come  up  to  the  cave  by  this  time,  and  she  sat  on 
the  stone  at  the  mouth  of  it  in  a  great  outburst  of  weeping.  It 
tore  his  heart  to  hear  her.  The  voice  of  her  weeping  was  like 
the  distressful  cry  of  the  slaughtered  lamb.  He  had  to  wrestle 
with  himself  not  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her. 
The  fit  of  tears  spent  itself  at  length,  and  after  a  time  she  drew 


78  THE  MANXMAN. 

great  breath  and  was  quiet.  Then  she  lifted  her  face,  and 
le  last  gleam  of  the  autumn  sun  smote  her  colourless  lips 
ad  swollen  eyes.  When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  like  one 
peaking  in  her  sleep,  or  under  the  spell  of  somebody  who  had 
lagnetised  her. 

"  It  is  wrong  of  me  to  think  so  much  of  myself,  as  if  that 
ere  everything.  I  ought  to  feel  sorry  for  you  too.  You 
lust  be  driven  to  it,  or  you  could  never  be  so  cruel." 

With  his  face  to  the  sea,  he  mumbled  somethiug  about 
etc,  and  she  caught  up  the  name  and  said,  ''  Yes,  and  Pete 
)o.  As  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  to  Pete,  I  will  not  hold 
)  you.  Oh,  it  will  be  wrong  to  me  as  well  !  But  I  will  not 
ive  you  the  pain  of  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  my  troubles  any 
lore.'' 

She  was  struggling  with  a  pitiless  hope  that  perhaps  she 
light  regain  him  after  all.  "  If  I  give  him  up,"  she  thought, 
he  will  love  me  for  it ; "  and  then,  with  a  sad  ring  in  her 
oice,  she  said,  "  You  will  go  on  and  be  a  great  man  now,  for 
ou'll  not  have  me  to  hold  you  back." 

''  For  pity's  sake,  say  no  more  of  that,"  he  said,  but  she  paid 

0  heed. 

""  I  used  to  think  it  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  loved  by  a  great 
lan.  I  don't  now.  It  is  terrible.  If  I  could  only  have  you 
)  myself  !  If  you  could  only  be  nothing  to  anybody  else  I 
ou  would  be  everything  to  me,  and  what  should  I  care 
len  ? " 

Between  torture  and  love  he  had  almost  broken  down  at 
lat,  but  he  gripped  his  breast  and  turned  half  aside,  for  his 
res  were  streaming.  She  came  up  to  him  and  touched  with 
le  tips  of  her  fingers  the  hand  that  hung  by  his  side,  and  said 

1  a  voice  like  a  child's,  "  Fancy  !  this  is  the  end  of  every- 
ling,  and  when  we  part  now  we  are  to  meet  no  more.  Not 
le  same  way  at  all — not  as  we  have  met.  You  will  be  like 
riybody  else  to  me,  and  I  will  be  like  anybody  else  to  you. 
[iss  Cregeen,  that  will  be  my  name,; and  you  will  be  Mr. 
hristian.  When  you  see  me  you'll  say  to  yourself,  'Yes, 
oor  thing  ;  long  ago,  when  she  w^as  a  girl,  I  made  her  love 
le.  Nobody  ever  loved  me  like  that.'  And  fancy  !  when 
ou  pass  me  in  the  street,  you  will  not  even  look  my  way. 
ou  won't,  will  you  ?  No— no,  it  will  be  better  not,  Good- 
ye!" 


I 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  I79 

Her  simple  tenderness  almost  stifled  him.  He  had  to  hold 
his  under  lip  with  his  teeth  to  keep  back  the  cry  that  was 
bursting  from  his  tongue.  At  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  he  broke  out,  "  Would  to  God  we  had  never  loved  each 
other  !    Would  to  God  we  had  never  met  !  " 

But  she  answered  with  the  same  childish  sweetness,  "  Don't 
say  that,  Philip.  We  have  had  some  happy  hours  together. 
I  would  rather  be  parted  from  you  like  this,  though  it  is  so 
hard,  so  cruel,  than  never  to  have  met  you  at  all.  Isn't  it 
something  for  me  to  think  of,  that  the  truest,  cleverest,  noblest 
man  in  all  the  world  has  loved  me  ?  .  .  .  Good-bye  !  .  .  . 
Good-bye  !  " 

His  heart  bled,  his  heart  cried,  but  he  uttered  no  sound. 
They  were  side  by  side.  She  let  his  hand  slip  from  the  tips  of 
her  fingers,  and  drew  silently  awa}^  At  three  paces  apart  she 
paused,  but  he  gave  no  sign.  She  climbed  the  low  brow  of 
the  hill  slowly,  very  slowly,  trying  to  command  her  throat, 
which  was  fluttering,  and  looking  back  through  her  tears  as 
she  went.  Philip  heard  the  shingle  slip  under  her  feet  while 
she  toiled  up  the  cliff,  and  when  she  reached  the  top  the  soft 
thud  on  the  turf  seemed  to  beat  on  his  heart.  She  stood  there 
a  moment  against  the  sky,  waiting  for  a  sound  from  the  shore, 
a  cry,  a  word,  the  lifting  of  a  hand,  a  sob,  a  sigh,  her  own 
name,  "Kate,"  and  she  was  ready  to  fly  back  even  then, 
wounded  and  humiliated*  as  she  was,  a  poor  torn  bird  that  had 
been  struggling  in  the  lime.  But  no  ;  he  was  silent  and  mo- 
tionless, and  she  disappeared  behind  the  hill.  He  saw  her  go, 
and  all  the  light  of  heaven  went  with  her. 


VHI. 

It  was  so  far  back  home,  so  much  farther  than  it  had  been 
to  come.  The  course  is  short  and  easy  going  out  to  sea  when 
the  tide  is  with  you,  and  the  water  is  smooth,  and  the  sun  is 
shining,  but  long  and  hard  coming  back  to  harbour,  when  the 
waves  have  risen,  and  the  sky  is  low,  and  the  wind  is  on  your 
bow. 

So  far,  so  very  far.  She  thought  everj^body  looked  at  her, 
and  knew  her  for  what  she  was — a  broken,  forsaken,  fallen 


ISO  THE   MANXMAN. 

woman.  And  she  was  so  tired  too  ;  she  wondered  if  her  limbs 
would  carry  her. 

When  Philip  was  left  alone,  the  sky  seemed  to  be  lying  on 
his  shoulders.  The  English  mountains  were  grey  and  ghostly 
now,  and  the  storm,  which  had  spent  itself  on  the  other  coast, 
seemed  to  hang  over  the  island.  There  were  breakers  where 
the  long  dead  sea  had  been,  and  the  petrel  outside  was  scud- 
ding close  to  the  white  curves,  and  uttering  its  dismal  note. 

So  heavy  and  confused  had  the  storm  and  wreck  of  the 
last  hour  left  him,  that  he  did  not  at  first  observe  by  the  back- 
ward tail  of  smoke  that  the  steamer  had  passed  round  the 
Head,  and  that  the  cart  he  had  met  at  the  mouth  of  the  port 
had  come  back  empty  to  the  cave  for  another  load  of  sea- 
wrack.  The  lobster-fisher,  too,  had  beached  his  boat  near  by, 
and  was  shouting  through  the  hollow  air,  wherein  every  noise 
seemed  to  echo  with  a  sepulchral  quake,  "The  block  was 
going  whistling  at  the  mast-head.  We'll  have  a  squall  I  was 
thinking,  so  in  I  came." 

That  night  Philip  dreamt  a  dream.  He  was  sitting  on  a 
dais  with  a  wooden  canopy  above  him,  the  English  coat  of 
arms  behind,  and  a  great  book  in  front  ;  his  hands  shook  as 
he  turned  the  leaves  ;  he  felt  his  leg  hang  heavily  ;  people 
bowed  low  to  him,  and  dropped  their  voices  in  his  presence  ; 
he  was  the  Deemster,  and  he  was  old.  A  young  woman  stood 
in  the  dock,  dripping  water  from  her  hair,  and  she  had 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  In  the  witness-box  a  young 
man  was  standing,  and  his  head  was  down.  The  man  had  de- 
livered the  woman  to  dishonour  ;  she  had  attempted  her  life 
in  her  shame  and  her  despair.  And  looking  on  the  man,  the 
Deemster  thought  he  spoke  in  a  stern  voice,  saying,  '•  Witness, 
I  am  compelled  to  punish  her,  but  oh  to  heaven  that  I  could 
punish  you  in  her  place  !  Y^^hat  have  you  to  say  for  your- 
self ?"  ''I  have  nothing  to  say  for  myself,"  the  young  man 
answered,  and  he  lifted  his  head  and  the  old  Deemster  saw  his 
face.  Then  Pbilip  awoke  ^vith  a  smothered  scream,  for  the 
young  man's  face  had  been  his  own. 


MAX  AND   WOMAN.  i^i 


IX. 


When  Caesar  got  to  the  quay,  he  looked  about  with  watch- 
ful eyes,  as  if  fearing  he  might  find  somebody  there  before  him. 
The  coast  was  clear,  and  he  gave  a  grunt  of  relief.  After  fix- 
ing the  horse-cloth,  and  settling  the  mare  in  a  nose-bag,  he 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  fore  part  of  the  harbour,  still 
keeping  an  eager  look-out.  As  time  went  on  he  grew  com- 
fortable, exchauged  salutations  with  the  harbour-master,  and 
even  whistled  a  little  to  while  away  the  time. 

"Quiet  day,  Mr.  Quayle." 

''  Quiet  enough  yet,  Mr.  Cregeen  ;  but  what's  it  saying  ? 
*  The  greater  the  calm  the  nearer  the  south  wind.' " 

By  the  time  that  Cagsar,  from  the  end  of  the  pier,  saw  the 
smoke  of  the  steamer  coming  round  Kirk  Maughold  Head,  he 
was  in  a  sjjiritual,  almost  a  mournful,  mood.  He  was  feeling 
how  melancholy  was  the  task  of  going  to  meet  the  few  pos- 
sessions, the  clothes  and  such  like,  which  were  all  that  re- 
mained of  a  dear  friend  departed.  It  was  the  duty  of  some- 
body, though,  and  Caesar  drew  a  long  breath  of  resignation. 

The  steamer  came  up  to  the  quay,  and  there  was  much 
bustle  and  confusion.  Caesar  waited,  with  one  hand  on  the 
mare's  neck,  until  the  worst  of  it  w  as  over.  Then  he  went 
aboard,  and  said  in  a  solemn  voice  to  the  sailor  at  the  foot  of 
the  gangway,  "Anything  here  the  propertj^  of  Mr.  Peter 
Quilliam  ? " 

"  That's  his  luggage,"  said  the  sailor,  pointing  to  a  leather 
trunk  of  moderate  size  among  similar  trunks  at  the  mouth  of 
the  hatchway. 

"H'm  ! "  said  Caesar,  eyeing  it  sideways,  and  thinking  how 
small  it  was.  Then,  reflecting  that  perhaps  valuable  papers 
were  all  it  was  thought  w^orth  while  to  send  home,  he  added 
cheerfully,  "I'll  take  it  with  me." 

Somewhat  to  Csesar's  surprise,  the  sailor  raised  no  diflicul- 
ties,  but  just  as  he  was  regarding  the  trunk  with  that  faith 
which  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  a  big,  ugly  hand 
laid  hold  of  it,  and  began  to  rock  it  about  like  a  pebble. 

It  was  Black  Tom,  smoking  with  perspiration. 

"  Aisy,  man,  aisy,"  said  Caesar,  with  lofty  dignity.  "  I've 
the  gig  on  the  quay." 

"And  I've  a  stiff  cart  on  the  market,"  said  Black  Tom. 


1S2  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  I'm  wanting  no  assistance,"  said  Caesar  ;  "  you  needn't 
trouble  yourself." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Caesar,"  said  Black  Tom,  and  he  turned 
the  trunk  on  end  and  bent  his  back  to  lift  it. 

But  Caesar  put  a  heavy  hand  on  top  and  said,  "Goug-h 
bless  me,  man,  but  I  am  sorry  for  thee.  Mammon  hath  en- 
tered into  thy  heart,  Tom." 

''  He  have  just  popped  out  of  thine,  then,"  said  Black  Tom, 
swirling  the  trunk  on  one  of  its  corners. 

But  Caesar  held  on,  and  said,  ''  I  don't  know  in  the  world 
why  you  should  let  the  devil  of  covetousness  get  the  better  of 
you." 

"  I  don't  mane  to— let  go  the  chiss,"  said  Black  Tom,  and  in 
another  minute  he  had  it  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Now,  T  believe  in  my  heart,"  said  Caesar,  "  I  would  be 
forgiven  a  little  violence,"  and  he  took  the  trunk  by  both 
hands  to  bring  it  down  again. 

•*  Let  go  the  chiss,  or  I'll  strek  thee  into  the  harbour," 
bawled  Black  Tom  under  his  load. 

"The  Philistines  be  upon  thee,  Samson,"  cried  Caesar,  and 
with  that  there  was  a  struggle. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  while  the  men  were  shouting 
into  each  other's  faces,  and  the  trunk  was  rocking  between 
them  shoulder  high,  a  sunburnt  man,  with  a  thick  beard  and 
a  formidable  voice,  a  stalwart  fellow  in  a  pilot  jacket  and 
wide-brimmed  hat,  came  hurrying  up  the  cabin-stairs,  and  a 
dog  came  running  behind  him.  A  moment  later  he  had 
parted  the  two  men.  and  the  trunk  was  lying  at  his  feet. 

Black  Tom  fell  back  a  step,  lifted  his  straw  hat,  scratched 
his  bald  cix)wn,  and  muttered  in  a  voice  of  awe.  "  Holy 
sailor  ! " 

Caesar's  face  was  livid,  and  his  eyes  went  up  toward  his 
forehead.  "Lord  have  mercy  upon  me," he  mumbled  ;  "have 
mercy  on  my  soul.  O  Lord." 

''  Don't  be  afmid,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I'm  a  living  man 
and  not  a  ghost." 

"  The  man  himself,"  said  Black  Tom. 

"  Peter  Quilliam  alive  and  hearty,"  said  Caesar. 

"  I  am,''  said  Pete.  "  And  now,  what's  the  bobbery  between 
the  pair  of  you  ?  Shuperin tending  the  beaching  of  my  trunk, 
eh?" 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  183 

But  having  recovered  from  his  terror  at  the  idea  that  Pete 
was  a  spirit,  Csesar  began  to  take  him  to  task  for  being  a  living 
man.  '"How's  this?"  said  he.  "Answer  me,  young  man, 
I've  praiched  your  funeral." 

"  You'll  have  to  do  it  again,  Mr.  Cregeen,  for  Vm  not  gone 
yet,"  said  Pete. 

"  No,  but  worth  ten  dead  men  still,"  said  Black  Tom. 
"  And  my  goodness,  boy,  the  smart  and  stout  you're  looking, 
anyway.  Been  thatching  a  bit  on  the  chin,  eh  ?  Foreign 
parts  has  made  a  man  of  you,  Peter.  The  straight  you're  like 
the  family,  too  !  You'll  be  coming  up  to  the  trough  with  me 
— the  ould  home,  you  know.  I'll  be  whipping  the  chiss  ashore 
in  a  jiffy,  only  Caesar's  that  eager  to  help,  it's  wonderful.  No, 
you'll  not  then  ? " 

Pete  was  shaking  his  head  as  he  went  up  the  gangway,  and 
seeing  this,  Caesar  said  severely — 

*'  Lave  the  gentleman  alone,  Mr.  Quilliam.  He  knows  his 
own  business  best." 

"  So  do  you,  Mr.  Collecting  Box,"  said  Black  Tom.  "  But 
your  head's  as  empty  as  a  mollag,  and  as  full  of  wind  as 
well.  It's  a  regular  ould  human  mollag  you  are,  anyway, 
fxoating  other  people's  nets  and  taking  all  that's  coming  to 
them." 

They  were  ashore  by  this  time  ;  one  of  the  quay  porters 
was  putting  the  trunk  into  the  gig,  and  Caesar  was  removing 
the  horse-cloth  and  the  nose-bag. 

"Get  up,  Mr.  Peter,  and  don't  listen  to  him,"  said  Caesar. 
"If  my  indus'try  and  integrity  have  been  blessed  with  in- 
crease under  Providence " 

"  Lave  Providence  out  of  it,  you  grasping  ould  Ebenezer, 
Zachariah,  Amen,"  bawled  Black  Tom. 

"You've  been  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  all  your  life, 
Tom,"  said  Caesar,  taking  his  seat  beside  Pete. 

"  You  haven't  though,  you  miser,"  said  Black  Tom  ;  "  you'd 
sell  your  soul  for  sixpence,  and  you'd  raffle  jour  ugly  ould 
body  if  you  could  get  anybody  to  take  tickets." 

"Go  home,  Thomas,"  said  Caesar,  twiddling  the  reins,  "go 
home  and  try  for  the  future  to  be  a  better  man." 

But  that  was  too  much  for  Black  Tom.  "  Better  man,  is  it? 
Come  down  on  the  quay  and  up  with  your  fiss,  and  I'll  show 
you  which  of  us  is  the  better  man." 


1S4  THE   MANXMAN. 

A  moment  later  Csesar  and  Pete  were  rattlino^  over  the  cob- 
bles of  the  market-place,  with  the  dog  racing-  behind.  Pete 
was  full  of  questions. 

"  And  how's  yourself,  Mr.  Cregeen  ? '' 

"I'm  in,  sir,  I'm  in,  sir,  praise  the  Lord." 

"  And  Grannie  ? " 

"  Like  myself,  sir,  not  getting  a  dale  younger,  but  caring 
little  for  spiritual  things,  though." 

"  Going  west,  is  she,  poor  ould  angel  ?  There  ought  to  be 
a  good  piece  of  daylight  at  her  yet,  for  all.  And— and  Nancy 
Joe  ? " 

''A  happy  sinner  still,''  said  Caesar.  "I  suppose,  sir,  you'd 
be  making  good  money  out  yonder  now  ?  We  were  hearing 
the  like,  anyway. " 

"  Money  !  "  said  Pete.  "  Well,  yes.  Enough  to  keep  otf 
the  divii  and  the  coroner.     But  how's — how's " 

"  There  now  !     For  life,  eh  ? "  said  Csesar. 

"  Yes,  for  life;  but  that's  nothing,"  said  Pete;  "  how's " 

"  Wonderful  I "  cried  Caesar ;  "  five  years  too  !  Boy 
veen.  the  light  was  nearly  took  out  of  my  eyes  when  I  saw 
you." 

"  But  Kate  ?  How's  Kate  ?  How's  the  girl,  herself  ? "  said 
Pete  nervously. 

"  Smart  uncommon,"  said  Caesar. 

"  God  bless  her  !  "  cried  Pete,  with  a  shout  that  was  heard 
across  the  street. 

"  We'll  pick  her  up  at  Crellin's,  it's  like,"  said  Csesar. 

"  What  ?  Crellin's  round  the  corner— Crellin  the  draper's! 
Woa  !  Let  me  down  !  The  mare's  tired,  father  ; "  and  Pete 
was  over  the  vvdieel  at  a  bound. 

He  came  out  of  the  shop  saying  Kate  had  left  word  that 
her  father  was  not  to  wait  for  her — she  would  perhaps  be 
home  before  him.  Amid  a  crowd  of  the  ''  mob  beg  "  children 
of  the  streets,  to  whom  he  showered  coppers  to  be  scrambled 
for,  Pete  got  up  again  to  Cffisar's  side,  and  they  set  off  for 
Sulby.  The  wind  had  risen  suddenly,  and  was  hooting  down 
the  narrow  streets  coming  up  from  the  harbour. 

"  And  Philip  ?    How's  Philip  ? ''  shouted  Pete. 

"  Mr.  Christian  ?  Well  and  hearty,  and  doing  wonders, 
sir." 

"  I  knew  it,"  cried  Pete,  with  a  resounding  laugh. 


MAN  AND   WO^rAN.  1S5 

"Going  like  a  flood,  and  sweeping  everything  before  him," 
said  Caesar. 

"  The  rising  day  with  him,  is  it  ? "  said  Pete.  "  I  always 
said  he'd  be  the  first  man  in  the  island,  and  he's  not  going  to 
deceave  me  neither." 

"The  young  man's  been  over  putting  a  sight  on  us  times 
and  times — lie  was  up  at  my  Melliah  only  a  week  come 
Wednesday,"  said  Ceesar. 

"  Man  alive  ! "  cried  Pete  ;  "  him  and  me  are  same  as 
brothers." 

"  Then  it  wasn't  true  what  they  were  writing  in  the  letter, 
sir — that  your  black  boys  left  you  for  dead  ? " 

"  They  did  that,  bad  luck  to  them,''  said  Pete  ;  ''  but  I  was 
thinking  it  no  sin  to  disappoint  them,  though." 

"Well,  well  !  lying  began  with  the  world,  and  with  the 
world  it  will  end,"  said  Caesar. 

As  they  passed  Ballywhaine,  Pete  shouted  into  Caesar's 
ear,  above  the  wind  that  was  roaring  in  the  trees,  and  scatter- 
ing the  ripening  leaves  in  clouds,  '•  And  how's  Dross  ? " 

"  That  wastrel  ?  Aw,  tearing  away,  tearing  away,"  said 
Cgesar. 

"  Floating  on  the  top  of  the  tide,  is  he  ? "  shouted  Pete. 

"  Maybe  so,  but  the  devil  is  fishing  where  yonder  fellow's 
swimming,"  answered  Csssar. 

"And  the  ould  man — the  Ballawhaine — still  above  the 
sod  ? "  bawled  Pete  behind  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  but  failing,  failing,  failing,"  shouted  Caesar.  "  The 
world's  getting  too  heavy  for  the  man.  Debts  here,  and  debts 
there,  and  debts  everywhere." 

"  Not  much  water  in  the  harbour  then,  eh  ? "  cried  Pete. 

"  No,  but  down  on  the  rocks  already,  if  it's  only  myself 
that  knovv's  it,"  shouted  Cassar. 

When  they  had  turned  the  Sulby  Bridge,  and  come  in  sight 
of  "  The  Manx  Fairy,"  Pete's  excitement  grew  wild,  and  he 
leaped  up  from  his  seat  and  shouted  above  the  wind  like  a  man 
possessed. 

"My  gough,  the  very  place  !  You've  been  thatching, 
though— yes,  you  have.  The  street  !  Holy  sailor,  there  it  is  ! 
Brownie  at  you  still  ?  Her  heifer,  is  it  ?  Get  up,  Molly  !  A 
taste  of  the  whip'll  do  the  mare  no  harm,  sir.  My  sakes, 
here's  ould  Flora  hobbling  out  to  meet  us.     Got  the  rheumat- 


18G  THE   MANXMAN. 

ics,  has  she  ?  Set  me  down,  Ceesar.  Here  we  are,  man.  Lord 
alive,  the  smell  of  the  cowhouse.  That  warm  and  damp,  it's 
grand  !  What,  don't  you  know  me,  Flo  ?  Got  your  temper 
still,  if  you've  lost  your  teeth  ?  My  sakes,  the  haggard  !  The 
same  spot  again  !  It's  turf  they're  burning  inside  I  And,  my 
gracious,  that's  herrings  roasting  in  their  brine  !  Where's 
Grannie,  though  ?  Let's  put  a  sight  in,  Caesar.  Well,  well, 
aw  well,  aw  well  !  " 

Thus  Pete  came  home,  laughing,  shouting,  bawling,  and 
bellowing  above  the  tumult  of  the  wind,  which  had  risen  by 
this  time  to  the  strength  of  agale. 

"  Mother,"  cried  C^sar,  going  in  at  the  porch,  "  gentleman 
here  from  foreign  parts  to  put  a  word  on  you." 

''  I  never  had  nobody  there  belonging  to  me,"  began  Gran- 
nie. 

'•No,  then,  nobody?"'  said  Csesar. 

"One  that  was  going  to  be,  maybe,  if  he'd  lived,  poor 
boy " 

"  Grannie  I ''  shouted  Pete,  and  he  burst  into  the  bar-room. 

"  Goodness  me  ! "  cried  Grannie  ;  "  it's  his  own  voice  any- 
way." 

"  It's  himself,"  shouted  Pete,  and  the  old  soul  was  in  his 
arms  in  an  instant. 

"  Aw  dear  !  Aw  dear  ! "  she  panted.  "  Pete  it  is  for  sure. 
Let  me  sit  down,  though." 

"  Did  you  think  it  was  his  ghost,  then,  mother  ! "  said 
Caesar  with  an  indulgent  air. 

''  'Deed  no,"  said  Grannie.  "  The  lad  wouldn't  come  back 
to  plague  nobod}^,  thinks  I." 

"  Still,  and  for  all  the  uprisement  of  Peter,  it  bates  every- 
thing," said  Caesar.  "  It's  a  sort  of  a  resurrection.  I  thought 
I'd  have  a  sight  up  to  the  packet  for  his  chiss,  poor  fellow, 
and,  behould  ye,  who  should  I  meet  in  the  two  eyes  but  the 
man  himself  I " 

"  Aw,  dear  !  It's  wonderful  !  it's  terrible  !  I'm  silly  with 
the  joy,"  said  Grannie. 

"  It  was  lies  in  the  letter  the  Manx  ones  were  writing,"  said 
Caesar. 

"Letters  and  writings  are  all  lies,"  said  Grannie.  "As 
long  as  I  live  I'll  take  no  more  of  them,  and  if  that  Kelly,  the 
postman,  comes  here  again,  I'll  take  the  bellows  to  him." 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  187 

"So  you  thought  I  was  gone  for  good,  Grannie?"  said 
Pete.  '•  Well,  I  thought  so  too.  '  Will  I  die  ? '  I  says  to  my- 
self times  and  times  ;  but  I  bethought  me  at  last  there  wasn't 
no  sense  in  a  good  man  like  me  laving  his  bones  out  on  the 
bare  Veldt  yonder  ;  so,  you  see,  I  spread  my  wings  and  came 
home  again." 

''  It's  the  Lord's  domgs— it's  marvellous  in  our  eyes,"  said 
C:rsar  ;  and  Grannie,  who  had  recovered  herself  and  was 
bustling  about,  cried — 

"  Let  me  have  a  right  look  at  him,  then.  Goodness  me,  the 
whisker  !  And  as  soft  as  Manx  carding  from  the  mill,  too. 
I  like  him  best  when  he  takes  ofP  his  hat  Well,  I'm  proud 
to  see  you,  boy.  'Deed,  but  I  wouldn't  have  known  you, 
though.  'Who's  the  gentleman  in  the  gig  with  father?' 
thinks  I.  And  I'd  have  said  it  was  the  Dempster  himself,  if 
he  hadn't  been  dead  and  in  his  coffin." 

"  That'll  do,  thatll  do,"  roared  Pete.  "  That's  Grannie  put- 
ting the  fun  on  me." 

"  It's  no  use  talking,  but  I  can't  keep  quiet  ;  no  I  can't," 
cried  Grannie,  and  with  that  she  whipped  up  a  bowl  from  the 
kitchen  dresser  and  fell  furiously  to  peeling  the  potatoes  that 
were  there  for  supper. 

''  But  Where's  Kate  ? "  said  Pete. 

''Aw,  yes,  where  is  she?  Kate  !  Kate  !"  called  Grannie, 
leaning  her  head  toward  the  stairs,  and  Nancy  Joe,  who  had 
been  standing  silent  until  now,  said — 

"  Didn't  she  go  to  Ramsey  with  the  gig,  woman  ? " 

"  Aw,  the  foolish  I  am  !  Of  course  she  did,"  said  Grannie; 
"  but  why  hasn't  she  come  back  with  father  ?  " 

"  She  left  word  at  Crellin's  not  to  w^ait,"  said  Caesar. 

''  She'll  be  gone  to  Miss  Clucas's  to  try  on,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Wouldn't  trust  now,"  said  Grannie.  ''  She's  having  two 
now  dresses  done,  Pete.  Aw,  girls  are  ter'ble.  Well,  can  you 
blame  them  either  ?" 

•'  She  shall  have  tvvo-and-twenty  if  she  likes,  God  bless  her," 
said  Pete. 

"  Goodness  me  !  "  said  Nancy,  "  is  the  man  for  buying  frocks 
for  a  Mormon  ? " 

"  But  you'll  be  empty,  boy.  Put  the  crow  down  and  the 
griddle  on,  Nancy,"  said  Grannie.  "We'll  have  cakes. 
Cakes  ?  Coorse  I  said  cakes.  Get  me  the  cloth  and  I'll  lay  it 
13 


1S8  'i'^l^   MANXMAN. 

myself.  The  cloth,  I'm  saying-,  woman.  Did  you  never  hear 
of  a  tablecloth  ?  Where  is  it  ?  Aw,  dear  knows  where  it  is 
now  !  It's  in  the  parlour  ;  no,  it's  in  the  chest  on  the  landing  ; 
no,  it's  under  the  sheets  of  my  own  bed.     Fetch  it,  bogh." 

"  Will  I  bi-iug  you  a  handful  of  gorse,  mother  ? "  said 
Caesar. 

"  Coorse  you  will,  and  not  stand  chattering  there.  But  I'm 
laving  you  drj^,  Pete.  Is  it  ale  you'll  have,  or  a  drop  of  hard 
stuff  ?  You'll  wait  for  Kate  ?  Now- 1  like  that.  There's  some 
life  at  these  totallers.  '  Steady  abroad  ? '  How  dare  you, 
Nancy  Joe  ?  You're  a  deal  too  clever.  Of  course  he's  been 
steady  abroad — steady  as  a  gun." 

"  But  Kate,"  said  Pete,  tramping  the  sanded  floor,  "  is  she 
changed  at  all  ? " 

'•  Aw,  she's  a  woman  now,  boy,"  said  Grannie. 

"Bless  my  soul !  "  said  Pete. 

'*  She  was  looking  a  bit  w^hite  and  narvous  one  while  there, 
but  she's  sprung  out  of  it  fresh  and  bright,  same  as  the  ling 
on  the  mountains.     Well,  that's  the  way  with  young  w^omen." 

"  I  know,"  said  Pete.  "  Just  the  break  of  the  morning  with 
the  darlings." 

"  But  she's  the  best-looking  girl  on  the  island  now,  Pete," 
said  Nancy  Joe. 

"  I'll  go  bail  on  it,"  cried  Pete. 

''  Big  and  fine  and  rosy,  and  fit  for  anything." 

"  Bless  my  heart  !  " 

"You  should  have  seen  her  at  the  Melliah  ;  it  was  a  trate." 

"  God  bless  me  !  " 

"  Sun-bonnet  and  pink  frock  and  tight  red  stockings,  and 
straight  as  a  standard  rose." 

"  Hould  your  tongue,  woman,"  shouted  Pete.  "  I'll  see  her- 
self first,  and  I'm  dying  to  do  it." 

Caesar  came  back  with  the  gorse  ;  Nancy  fed  the  fire  and 
Grannie  stirred  the  oatmeal  and  water.  And  while  the  cakes 
were  baking,  Pete  tramped  the  kitchen  and  examined  every- 
tliinlv,  and  recognised  old  friends  with  a  roar. 

"  Bless  me  !  the  same  place  still.  There's  the  clock  on  the 
shelf,  wdth  the  scratch  on  its  face  and  the  big  finger  broke  at 
the  joint,  and  the  lath — and  the  peck — and  the  whip — you've 
had  it  new  corded,  though " 

"  Sakes,  how  the  boy  remembers  ! "  cried  Grannie. 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  ISO 

"  And  the  white  riinipy ''  (the  cat  had  leapt  on  to  the  dresser 
out  of  the  reach  of  Pete's  doji,',  and  from  that  elevation  was 
eyeing-  him  steadfastly),  ''and  the  slowrie — and  the  kettle — and 
the  pokei' — my  gracious,  the  very  poker " 

"  Now,  did  you  ever  ! "  cried  Grannie  with  amazement. 

''  And— yes — no — it  is,  though — I'll  swear  it  before  the 
Dempster — that's,"  said  Pete,  picking  up  a  three-legged  stool, 
"  that's  the  very  stool  she  was  sitting  on  herself  in  the  fire-seat 
in  front  of  the  turf  closet.  Let  me  sit  there  now  for  the  sake 
of  ould  times  gone  by," 

He  put  the  stool  in  the  fireplace  and  sat  on  it,  shouting  as 
he  did  so  between  a  laugh  and  a  cry,  ''  Aw.  Grannie,  bogh — 
Grannie,  bogh  !  to  think  there's  been  half  the  world  between 
us  since  I  was  sitting  here  before  ! " 

And  Grannie  herself,  breaking  down,  said,  "  Wouldn't  you 
like  the  tongs,  boy  ?  Give  the  boy  the  tongs,  woman,  just  to 
say  he's  at  home." 

Pete  plucked  the  tongs  out  of  Nancy's  hands,  and  began 
feeding  the  fire  with  the  gorse.  ''  Aw,  Grannie,  have  I  ever 
been  away  ?"  he  cried,  laughing,  and  his  wet  eyes  gleaming. 

"  Nancy  Joe,  have  you  no  nose  at  all  ? "  cried  Grannie. 
"The  cake's  burning  to  a  cinder." 

•'  Let  it  burn,  mother,"  shouted  Pete.  "  It's  the  way  she 
was  doing  hei'self  when  she  was  young  and  forgetting.  Shil- 
lings a-piece  for  all  that's  wasted.  Aw,  the  smell  of  it's 
sweet  ! "' 

So  saying  he  piled  the  gorse  on  the  fire,  ramming  it  under 
the  griddle  and  choking  it  behind  the  crow.  And  wliile  the 
oatcake  crackled  and  sparched  and  went  black,  he  sniffed  up 
the  burning  odour,  and  laughed  and  cried  in  the  midst  of  the 
smoke  that  went  swirling  up  the  chimney. 

And  meanwhile.  Grannie  herself,  with  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks,  was  flapping  her  apron  before  her  face  and 
saying,  "He'll  make  me  die  of  laughing,  he  will,  though— yes, 
he  will  ! "  But  behind  the  apron  she  was  blubbering  to  Nan- 
cy, "It's  coming  home,  woman,  that's  it— it's  just  coming  home 
again,  poor  boy  I  " 

By  this  time  word  of  Pete's  return  had  gone  round  Sulby^ 
and  the  bar-room  was  soon  thronged  with  men  and  women, 
who  looked  through  the  glass  partition  into  the  kitchen  at  the 
bronzed  and  bearded  man  who  sat  smoking  by  the  fire,  with 


190  THE  MANXMAN. 

his  dog"  curled  up  at  his  feet.  ''  There'll  be  a  wedding  soon," 
said  one.  "  The  girl's  in  luck,"  said  another.  ''  Success  to  the 
fine  girl  she  always  was,  and  lucky  they  kept  her  from  the 
poor  toot  that  was  beating  about  on  her  port  bow." — "The 
young  Ballawhaine,  eh  ?'" — "'  Who  else  ?  " 

Presently  the  dog  went  out  to  them,  and,  in  default  of  its 
master,  became  a  centre  of  excited  interest.  It  was  an  old 
creature,  with  a  settled  look  of  age.  and  a  gravity  of  expression 
that  seemed  to  say  he  had  got  over  the  follies  of  youth,  and 
was  now  reserved  and  determined  to  keep  the  peace.  His 
back  was  curved  in  as  if  a  cart-wheel  had  gone  over  his  spine, 
he  had  gigantic  eai's,  a  stump  of  a  tail,  a  coat  thin  and  prickly 
like  the  bristles  of  a  pig,  but  white  and  spotted  with  brown. 

"  Lord  save  us  !  a  queer  dog,  though — what's  his  breed  at 
all  ?"  said  one;  and  tlien  a  resounding  voice  came  from  the 
kitchen  doorway,  saying — 

"A  sort  of  a  Manxman  crossed  with  a  bat.  Got  no  tail  to 
speak  of,  but  there's  plenty  of  ears  at  him.  A  handy  sort  of  a 
dog,  only  a  bit  spoiled  in  his  childhood.  Not  fit  for  much 
company  anyway,  and  no  more  notion  of  dacent  behavioui* 
than  my  ould  shoe.     Down,  Dempster,  down." 

It  was  Pete.  He  was  greeted  with  loud  welcomes,  and  soon 
filled  the  room  all  round  with  the  steaming  odour  of  spirits 
and  water. 

''You've  the  Manx  tongue  at  you  still,  Mr.  Quilliam,"  said 
Jonaique:  "  and  you're  calling  the  dog  Dempster;  what's  that 
for  at  all  ? " 

"  For  sake  of  the  ould  island,  Mr.  Jelly,  and  for  the  straight 
he's  like  Dempster  Mj'lrea  when  he's  a  bit  crooked,"  said  Pete. 

"  The  old  man's  dead,  sir,"  said  John  the  Clerk. 

"  You  don't  say  ? "  said  Pete. 

'*Yes,  though;  the  sun  went  down  on  him  a  Wednesday. 
The  drink,  sir,  the  drink  !  I've  been  cutting  a  sod  of  his  grave 
to-day." 

"  And  who's  to  be  Dempster  now  ? "  asked  Pete.  ''  Who 
are  they  putting  in  for  it  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  John  the  Clerk,  "  they'ie  talking  and  talking, 
and  some's  saying  this  one  and  others  that  one;  but  the  most 
is  saying  your  ould  friend  Philip  Christian." 

'*I  knew  it— I  always  said  it,"  shouted  Pete;  "best  man  in 
the  island,  bar  none.     Oh,  he'll  not  deceave  me." 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  lyi 

The  wind  was  roaring  in  the  chimney,  and  the  lij^ht  was 
beginning  to  fail.  Pete  became  restless,  and  walked  to  and 
fro,  peering  out  at  intervals  by  the  window  that  looked  on  to 
the  road.  At  this  there  was  some  pushing  and  nudging  and 
indulgent  whispering. 

"  It's  the  girl  !  Aw,  be  aisy  witli  the  like  !  Five  years 
apart,  be  aisy  ! " 

''  The  meadow's  white  with  the  gulls  sitting  together  like 
parrots ;  what's  that  a  sign  of,  father  ? "  said  Pete. 

''Just  a  slant  of  rain  maybe,  and  a  puff  of  wind,"  said 
CjBsar. 

''  But,"  said  Pete,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  "  the  long  cat  tail 
was  going  off  at  a  slant  awhile  ago,  and  now  the  thick  skate 
yonder  is  hanging  mortal  low." 

"  Take  your  time,  sir,"  said  Cassar.  "  No  need  to  send  round 
the  Cross  Vustha  (fiery  cross)  yet.  The  girl  will  be  home  im- 
madiently." 

"  It'll  be  dark  at  her,  though,"  said  Pete. 

The  company  tried  to  draw  him  into  conversation  about 
the  ways  of  life  in  the  countries  he  had  visited,  but  he  answered 
absently  and  jerkily,  and  kept  going  to  the  door. 

"  Suppose  there'll  be  Dempsters  enough  where  you're  com- 
ing from  ?  "  said  Jonaique. 

"Sort  of  Dempsters,  yes.  Called  one  of  them  Ould  Neces- 
sity, because  it  knows  no  law.  He  rigged  up  the  statute  books 
atop  of  his  stool  for  a  high  sate,  and  when  he  wanted  them  he 
couldn't  find  tb.em  high  or  low.  Not  the  first  judge  that's  sat 
on  the  law,  though.  .  .  .  It's  coming,  Caesar,  d'ye  hear  it  ? 
That's  the  rain  on  the  street.'' 

"  Aisy,  man,  aisy.  man,"  said  Ca3sar.  "  New  dresses  isn't 
rigged  up  in  no  time.  There'll  be  chapels  now,  eh  ?  Chapels 
and  conferences,  and  proper  religious  instruction  ? " 

"  Divil  a  chapel,  sir,  only  a  rickety  barn,  belonging  to  some- 
ones  they're  calling  the  Sky  Pilots  to.  Wanted  the  ould  miser 
that  runs  it  to  build  them  a  new  tabernacle,  but  he  wouldn't 
part  till  a  lump  of  plaster  fell  on  his  bald  head  at  a  love-feast, 
and  then  he  ])lanked  down  a  hundred  pound,  and  they  all 
shouted,  'Hit  him  again.  Lord— you  might  !'  .  .  .  D'ye  hear 
that,  then  ?  That's  the  water  coming  down  from  the  gill.  I 
can't  stand  no  more  of  it,  Grannie." 

Grannie  was  at  the  door,  struggling  to  hold  it  against  the 


192  THE  MANXMAN. 

wind,  while  she  looked  out  into  the  gathering  dai'kness. 
''  'Deed,  but  I'm  getting  afraid  of  it  myself,"  she  said,  "  and 
dear  heart  knows  where  Kirry  can  be  at  this  time  of  night." 

.    •'  I'm  off  to  find  her,"  said  Pete,  and,  catching  np  his  hat 
and  whistling  to  the  dog,  in  a  moment  he  was  gone. 


X. 

The  door  was  hard  to  close  behind  him,  for  it  was  now 
blowing  a  gale  from  the  north-east.  Caesar  slipped  through 
the  dairy  to  see  if  the  outbuildings  were  safe,  and  came  back 
w^ith  a  satisfied  look.  The  stable  and  cow-house  were  barred, 
the  barns  were  shut  up,  the  mill-wheel  was  on  the  brake,  the 
kiln  fire  was  burning  gently,  and  all  was  snug  and  tight. 
Grannie  was  wringing  her  hands  as  he  returned,  crying 
"  Kate  !  Oh,  Kate  !  "  and  he  reproved  her  for  want  of  trust 
in  Providence. 

People  were  now  coming  in  rapidly  with  terrible  stories  of 
damage  done  by  the  storm.  It  was  reported  that  the  Chicken 
Rock  Lighthouse  was  blown  down,  that  the  tide  had  risen  to 
twenty-five  feet  in  Ramsey  and  torn  up  the  streets,  and  that  a 
Peel  fisherman  had  been  struck  by  his  mainsail  into  the  sea 
and  drowned. 

More  came  into  the  house  at  every  minute,  and  among 
them  were  all  the  lonesome  and  helpless  ones  within  a  radius  of 
a  mile — Blind  Jane,  w^ho  charmed  blood,  but  could  not  charm 
the  wind  ;  Shemiah,  the  prophet,  with  beard  down  to  his  waist 
and  a  staff  up  to  his  shoulder ;  and  old  Juan  Vessy,  who  "  lived 
on  the  houses  "  in  the  way  of  a  tramp.  The  people  who  had 
been  there  already  were  afraid  to  go  out,  and  Grannie,  still 
wringing  her  hands  and  crying  "  Kate,  Kate,"  called  every- 
body into  the  kitchen  to  gather  about  the  fire.  There  they 
bemoaned  their  boys  on  the  sea,  told  stories  of  former  storms, 
and  quarrelled  about  the  years  of  wrecks  and  the  sources  of 
the  winds  that  caused  them. 

The  gale  increased  to  fearful  violence,  and  sometimes  the 
w^nd  sounded  like  sheets  flapping  against  the  walls,  sometimes 
like  the  deep  boom  of  the  waves  that  roll  on  themselves  in 
mid-ocean  and  never  know  a  shore.  It  began  to  groan  in  the 
chimney  as  if  it  were  a  wild  beast  struggling  to  escape,  and 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  193 

then  the  smoke  came  down  in  whorls  and  filled  the  kitchen. 
They  had  to  put  out  the  fire  to  keep  themselves  from  suffoca- 
tion, and  to  sit  back  from  the  fireplace  to  protect  themselves 
from  cold.  The  door  of  the  porch  flew  open,  and  they  barri- 
caded it  with  long-handled  hrushes  ;  the  windows  rattled  in 
their  frames,  and  they  blocked  them  up  with  the  tops  of  the 
tahles.  In  spite  of  all  efforts  to  shut  out  the  wind,  the  house 
was  like  a  hasket,  and  it  quaked  like  a  ship  at  sea.  "  I  never 
heard  the  like  on  the  water  itself,  and  I'm  used  of  the  sea,  too,'' 
said  one.     The  others  groaned  and  mumbled  prayers. 

Kelly  the  Thief,  who  had  come  in  unopposed  by  Grannie, 
was  on  his  knees  in  one  corner  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  call- 
ing on  the  Lord  to  remember  that  he  had  seen  things  in  letters 
— stamps  and  such — but  had  never  touched  them.  -John  the 
Clerk  was  saying  that  he  had  to  bury  the  Deemster  ;  Jouaique, 
the  barber,  that  he  had  been  sent  for  to  "  cut "  the  Bishop  ; 
and  Claudius  Kewley,  the  farmer,  that  he  had  three  fields  of 
barley  still  uncut  and  a  stack  of  oats  unthatched.  '*0h. 
Lord,"  cried  Claudius,  '"  let  me  not  die  till  I've  got  nothing 
to  do  : " 

Csesar  stood  like  a  strong  man  amidst  their  moans  and 
groans,  their  bowings  of  the  head  and  clappings  of  the  hands, 
and,  when  he  heard  the  farmer,  his  look  was  severe. 

''  Cloddy,"  said  he,  "  how  do  you  dare  to  doubt  the  provi- 
dence of  God  ? " 

''Aisy  to  talk,  Mr.  Cregeen,"  the  farmer  whined,  "but 
you've  got  your  own  harvest  saved,"  and  then  Caesar  had  no 
resource  but  to  punish  the  man  in  prayer.  '"  The  Lord  had 
sent  His  storm  to  reprove  some  that  were  making  too  sure  of 
His  mercies  ;  but  there  was  grace  in  the  gale,  only  they 
wouldn't  be  patient  and  trust  to  God's  providence  ;  there  was 
milk  in  the  breast,  only  the  wayward  child  wouldn't  take  time 
to  find  the  teat.     Lord,  lead  them  to  true  stillness " 

In  the  midst  of  Caesar's  prayer  there  was  a  sudden  roar  out- 
side, and  he  leapt  abruptly  to  his  feet  with  a  look  of  vexation. 
'*  I  believe  in  my  heart  that's  the  mill-wheel  broken  loose," 
said  he,  "and  if  it  is,  the  corn  on  the  kiln  will  be  going  like  a 
whirlingig." 

"Trust  in  God's  providence,  Ca?sar,''  cried  tlie  farmer. 

"So  I  will,"  said  Ca3sar,  catching  up  his  hat,  "but  I'll  put 
out  my  kiln  fire  first." 


194  THE  MANXMAN. 

When  Pete  stepped  out  of  the  porch,  he  felt  himself  smit- 
ten as  hy  an  invisible  wing,  and  he  gasped  like  a  fish  with  too 
much  air.  A  quick  pain  in  the  side  at  that  moment  reminded 
him  of  his  bullet-wound,  but  his  heels  had  heart  in  them,  and 
he  set  off  to  run.  The  night  had  fallen,  but  a  green  rent  was 
torn  in  the  leaden  sky,  and  through  this  the  full  moon  ap- 
peared. 

AVhen  he  got  to  Eamsey  the  tide  was  up  to  the  old  cross, 
slates  were  flying  like  kites,  and  the  harbour  sounded  like  a 
battlefield  with  its  thunderous  roar  of  rigging.  He  made  for 
the  dressmaker's,  and  heard  that  Kate  had  not  been  there  for 
six  hours.  At  the  draper's  he  learned  that  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  she  had  been  seen  going  up  Ballure.  The  sound 
rocket  Avas  fired  as  he  pushed  through  the  town.  A  schooner 
riding  to  an  anchor  in  the  bay  was  flying  her  ensign  for  help. 
The  sea  was  terrific — a  slaty  grey,  streaked  with  white  foam 
like  quartz  veins  ;  but  the  men  who  had  been  idling  on  the 
quay  when  the  water  was  calm  were  now  struggling,  chafing, 
and  fighting  to  go  out  on  it,  for  the  blood  of  the  old  Vikings 
was  in  tliem. 

Going  by  the  water-trough,  Pete  called  on  Black  Tom,  who 
was  civil  and  conciliatory  until  he  heard  his  errand,  then 
growled  with  disappointment,  but  nevertheless  answered  his 
question.  Yes,  he  had  seen  the  young  woman.  She  went  up 
early  in  the  "everin,"  and  left  him  good-day.  Giving  this 
grateful  nev/s.  Black  Tom  could  not  deny  himself  a  Avord  of 
bitterness  to  poison  the  pleasure.  "  And  when  you  are  find- 
ing her,"  said  he,  "  you'll  be  doing  well  to  take  her  in  tow,  for 
I'm  thinking  there's  some  that's  for  throwing  her  a  rope." 

"  Who  d'ye  mane  ?  "  said  Pete. 

"  I  lave  it  with  you,"  said  Black  Tom;  and  Pete  pulled  the 
door  after  him. 

On  the  breast  of  the  hill  there  was  the  meeting  of  two 
roads,  one  of  them  leading  up  to  the  "  Hibernian,"  the  other 
going  down  to  Port  Mooar.  To  resolve  the  difficulty  of 
choice,  Pete  inquired  at  a  cottage  standing  some  paces  beyond, 
and  as  Kate  had  not  been  seen  to  pass  up  the  higher  road,  he 
determined  to  take  the  lower  one.  But  he  gathered  no  tidings 
by  the  way,  for  Billy  by  the  mill  knew  nothing,  and  the 
woman  by  the  sundial  had  gone  to  bed.  At  length  he  dipped 
into  Port  Mooar,  and  came  to  a  little  cottage  like  a  child's 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  -    195 

Noah's  ark,  with  its  tiny  porch  and  red  light  inside,  looking 
out  on  the  white  breakei*s  that  were  racing  along  the  beach. 
It  was  the  cottage  of  the  lobster-fisher.  Pete  inquired  if  he 
had  seen  Kate.  He  answered  no;  he  had  seen  nobody  that 
day  but  Mr.  Christian.  Which  of  the  Christians  ?  Mr.  Philii) 
Christian. 

The  news  carried  only  one  message  to  Pete's  mind.  It 
seemed  to  explain  something  which  had  begun  to  per])lex 
him — why  Philip  had  not  met  him  at  the  quay,  and  why  Kate 
had  not  heard  of  his  coming.  Clearly  Philip  was  at  present 
at  Ballure.  He  had  not  yet  received  the  telegram  addressed 
to  Douglas. 

Pete  turned  back.  Surely  Kate  had  called  somewhere. 
She  would  be  at  home  by  this  time.  He  tried  to  run,  but  the 
wind  was  now  in  his  face.  It  was  veering  northwards  every 
minute,  and  rising  to  the  force  of  a  hurricane.  He  tied  his 
handkerchief  over  his  head  and  under  his  chin  to  hold  on  his 
hat.  Ilis  hair  whipped  his  ears  like  rods.  Sometimes  he  was 
swept  into  the  hedge;  often  he  was  brought  to  his  knees. 
Still  he  toiled  along  through  sheets  of  spray  that  glistened 
with  the  colours  of  a  rainbow,  and  ran  over  the  ground  like 
di'iven  rain.  His  eyes  smarted,  and  the  taste  on  his  lips  was 
salt. 

The  moon  was  now  riding  at  the  full  through  a  wild 
flecked  skv^,  and  Pete  could  clearly  see,  as  he  returned  towards 
the  ba^^,  a  crowd  of  human  figures  on  the  cliffs  above  Port 
Lewaige.  Quaking  with  undefined  fears,  he  pushed  on  until 
he  had  joined  them.  The  schooner,  abandoned  by  her  crew, 
had  parted  her  cable,  and  was  rolling  like  a  blinded  porpoise 
towards  the  rocks.  She  fell  on  them  with  the  groan  of  a  liv- 
ing creature,  and,  the  instant  her  head  was  down,  the  white 
lions  of  the  sea  leapt  over  her  with  a  howl,  the  water  swirled 
through  her  bulwarks  and  filled  her  hatches,  her  rudder  was 
unshipped,  her  sails  were  torn  from  their  gaskets,  and  the 
floating  home  wherein  men  had  sailed,  and  sung,  and  slept, 
and  laughed,  and  jested,  was  a  broken  wreck  in  the  heavy 
wallowings  of  the  waves. 

Kate  had  not  returned  when  Pete  got  back  to  Sulby,  but 
the  excitement  of  her  absence  was  eclii)sed  for  the  time  by  the 
turmoil  of  Caesar's  troul)le.  Standing  in  the  dark  on  the  to]) 
of  the  midden,  he  was  shouting-  to  the  dairv  door  in  a  voice  of 


196  THE    MANXMAN. 

tliunder,  which  \xent  off  at  the  end  of  his  beard  like  the  puling 
of  a  cat.  The  mill- wheel  was  going  same  as  a  '*  whirlingig  '' — 
vijsis  there  nobody  to  "  hould  the  brake  ? "  The  stable  roof  was 
stripped,  and  the  mare  was  tearing  herself  to  pieces  in  a  roar- 
ing "  pit  of  hell  "—was  there  never  a  shoulder  for  the  door  ? 
The  cow-house  thatch  was  flapping  like  a  sail — was  there 
nothing  in  the  world  but  a  woman  (Nancy  Joe)  to  help  a  man 
to  throw  a  ladder  and  a  stone  over  it  ? 

Only  when  Ccesar  had  been  pacified  was  there  silence  to 
speak  of  Kate.  "  I  picked  up  news  of  her  coming  back  by 
Ciaughbane,"  said  Pete,  ''and  traced  her  as  near  home  as  the 
'  Ginger.'     She  can't  be  far  away.     Where  is  she  ?  " 

Those  who  were  cool  enough  fell  to  conjecture.  Grannie 
had  no  resource  but  groans.  Nancy  was  moaning  by  her 
side.  The  rest  were  full  of  their  own  troubles.  Blind  Jane 
was  bewailing  her  affliction. 

"You  can  all  see,"  she  cried,  *•  but  I'm  not  knowing  the 
harm  that's  coming  on  me." 

"  Hush,  woman,  hush,''  said  Pete  ;  "  we're  all  same  as  your- 
self half  our  lives — we're  all  blind  at  night." 

In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and 
Pete  made  a  plunge  towards  the  porch. 

''Wait,"  cried  C£esar.  ''Nobody  else  comes  here  to-night 
except  the  girl  herself.  Another  wind  like  the  last  and  we'll 
have  the  roof  off  the  house  too." 

Then  he  called  to  the  new-comer,  with  his  face  to  the  porch 
door,  and  the  answer  came  back  to  him  in  a  wail  like  the  wind 
itself. 

"Who's  there?" 

It  was  Joney  from  the  glen. 

'*  We're  like  herrings  in  a  barrel — we  can't  let  you  in." 

She  wasn't  wanting  to  come  in.  But  her  roof  was  going 
stripping,  and  half  her  house  was  felled,  and  she  couldn't  get 
her  son  (the  idiot  boy)  to  leave  his  bed.  He  would  perish :  he 
would  die;  he  was  all  the  family  she  had  left  to  her — wouldn't 
the  master  come  and  save  him  ? 

"Impossible  !  "  shouted  Caesar.  "  VfeVe  our  ov\-n  missing 
this  fearful  night,  Joney.  and  the  Lord  will  protect  His  chil- 
dren." 

Was  it  Kate  ?    She  had  seen  her  in  the  glen 

'*  Let  me  get  at  that  door,"  said  Pete. 


.^lAN    AND    WOMAN.  ly; 

"  But  the  lioiise  will  come  down,"  cried  Caesar. 

"  Let  it  come,"  said  Pete. 

Pete  shut  the  door  of  the  bar-room,  and  then  the  wind  was 
heard  to  swirl  through  the  porch. 

''  When  did  you  see  her,  Joney,  and  where  ? "  said  the 
voice  of  Pete  ;  and  the  voice  of  Joney  answered  him — 

''Going*  by  my  own  house  at  the  start  of  the  storm  this 
ever  in." 

"I'll  come  with  you— go  on,"  said  Pete,  and  Grannie 
shouted  across  the  bar — 

"  Take  Caesar's  topcoat  over  your  monkey-jacket." 

"Pve  sail  enough  already  for  a  wind  like  this,  mother," 
cried  the  voice  of  Pete,  and  then  the  swirling  sound  in  the 
porch  went  off  with  a  long-drawn  whirr,  and  Ca?sar  came 
back  alone  to  the  kitchen. 

Pete's  wound  ached  again,  but  he  pressed  his  hand  on  the 
place  of  it  and  struggled  up  the  glen,  dragging  Joney  behind 
him.  They  came  to  her  house  at  last.  One  half  of  the 
thatch  lay  over  the  other  half  ;  the  rafters  were  bare  like  the 
ribs  of  the  wreck  ;  the  oat-cake  peck  was  rattling  on  the  lath; 
the  meal-barrel  in  the  corner  was  stripped  of  its  lid,  and  the 
meal  was  whirling  into  the  air  like  a  waterspout  ;  the 
dresser  was  stripped,  the  broken  crockery  lay  on  the  uncov- 
ered floor,  and  the  iron  slowrie  hanging  over  the  place  of  the 
fb'e  was  swinging  and  striking  against  the  wall,  and  ringing 
like  a  knell.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  scene  of  desolation  the 
idiot  boy  was  placidly  sleeping  on  his  naked  bed,  and  over  it 
the  moon  was  scudding  through  a  tattered  sky. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  the  company  in  the  kitchen  lis- 
tened long,  and  sometimes  heard  sounds  as  of  voices  crying  in 
the  Aviud,  but  Pete  did  not  return.  Then  they  fell  to  groan- 
ing again,  to  praying  aloud  without  fear,  and  to  confessing 
their  undiscovered  sins  without  shame. 

"I'm  searched  terrible — I  can  see  through  me,"  ci'icd 
Kelly,  the  postman. 

Some  were  chiefly  troubled  lest  death  should  fall  on  them 
while  they  were  in  a  public-house. 

"  I  keep  none,"  cried  Caesar. 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  us  open  the  door,"  whined  the 
farmer. 

If  the  door  had  been  wide  enough  for  a  Bishop,  not  a  soul 


198  THE   MANXMAN. 

v/ould  have  stirred.  For  the  first  time  within  anyone's  recol- 
lection, Nancy  Joe  was  on  her  knees. 

'■  O  Lord,"  she  prayed,  ''  Thou  knowest  well  I  don't  often 
bother  Tliee.  But  save  Kate,  Lord  ;  oh,  save  and  prasarve 
my  little  Kirry  !  It's  twenty  years  and  better  since  I  asked 
anything  of  Thee  before  and  if  Thou  wilt  only  take  away  this 
wind,  I'll  promise  not  to  say  another  prayer  for  twenty  years 
more." 

"  Say  it  in  Manx,  woman,"  moaned  Grannie.  "  I  always 
say  my  prayers  in  Manx  as  well,  and  the  Lord  can  listen  to 
the  one  He  knows  best." 

"  There's  prayer  as  well  as  praise  in  singing,"  cried  Caesar  ; 
and  they  began  to  sing,  all  down  on  their  knees,  their  eyes 
tightly  closed,  and  their  hands  clasped  before  their  faces.  They 
sang  of  heaven  and  its  peaceful  plains,  its  blue  lakes  and  sunny 
skies,  its  golden  cities  and  emerald  gates,  its  temples  and  its 
tabernacles,  where  "  congregations  ne'er  break  up  and  Sab- 
baths never  end."  It  was  some  comfort  to  drown  with  the 
wild  discord  of  their  own  voices  the  fearful  noises  of  the 
tempest.  When  they  finished  the  hymn,  they  began  on  it 
again,  keeping  it  up  without  a  break,  sweeping  the  dying 
note  of  the  last  word  into  the  rising  pitch  of  the  first  one.  In 
the  midst  of  their  singing,  they  thought  a  fiercer  gust  than 
ever  was  beating  on  the  door,  and.  to  smother  the  fear  of  it, 
they  sang  yet  louder.  The  gust  came  a  second  time,  and  Caesar 
cried — 

"  Again,  brothers,"  and  away  they  went  vjiih  another  wild 
whoop  through  the  hymn. 

It  came  a  third  time,  and  Caesar  cried — 

'"  Once  more,  beloved,"  and  they  raced  madly  through  the 
hymn  again. 

Then  the  door  burst  open  as  before  a  tremendous  kick,  and 
Pete,  fierce  and  wild-eyed,  and  green  wdth  the  drift  of  the  salt 
foam  caked  thick  on  his  face,  stepped  over  the  threshold  with 
the  unconscious  body  of  Kate  in  his  arms  and  the  idiot  boy 
peering  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  an  answer  to  prayer,"  cried  Caesar. 
''  Where  did  ^^ou  find  her  ?  " 

"In  the  tholthan  up  the  glen,"  said  Pete.  "Up  in  the 
witch's  tholthan." 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  -joc) 


XI. 

On  the  second  morning  afterwards  the  air  was  quiet  and 
full  of  the  odour  of  seaweed  ;  the  sky  was  round  as  the  iuside 
of  a  shell,  and  pale  pink  like  the  shadow  of  Ihime  ;  the  water 
was  smooth  and  silent  ;  the  hills  had  lost  the  memory  of  tlie 
storm,  and  land  and  sea  lay  like  a  sleeping  child. 

In  this  hroad  and  stead^^  morning-  Kate  came  hack  to  con- 
sciousness. She  had  slid  out  of  delirium  into  sleep  as  a  boat 
slides  out  of  the  open  sea  into  harbour,  and  when  she  awoke 
there  was  a  voice  in  her  ears  that  seemed  to  be  calling  to  her 
from  the  quay.  It  was  a  familiar  voice,  and  yet  it  was  unfa- 
miliar ;  it  was  like  the  voice  of  a  friend  heard  for  the  fii'st 
time  after  a  voyage.  It  seemed  to  come  from  a  long  way  olf, 
and  yet  to  be  knocking  at  the  very  door  of  her  heart.  She 
kept  her  eyes  closed  for  a  moment  and  listened  ;  then  she 
opened  them  and  looked  again. 

The  light  was  clouded  and  yet  dazzling,  as  if  glazed  muslin 
were  shaking  before  her  eyes.  Grannie  was  sitting  by  her 
bedside,  knitting  in  silence. 

"  Why  are  you  sitting  there,  mother  ?  "  she  asked. 

Grannie  dropped  her  needles  and  caught  at  her  apron. 
"  Dear  heart  alive,  the  child's  herself  again  ! "  she  said. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ? "  said  Kate.  "  What  time 
is  it  ?  " 

''  Monday  morning,  bogh,  thank  the  Lord  for  all  His  mer- 
cies ! "  cried  Grannie. 

The  familiar  voice  came  again.  It  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stairs.  "  Who's  that  ? "  said  Kate,  whispering 
fearfully. 

"  Pete  himself,  Kirry.     A.w  well  !     Aw  dear  ! " 

"  Pete  ! "  cried  Kate  in  terror. 

''Aw,  no,  woman,  but  a  living  man  come  back  again.  No 
fear  of  him,  bogh  !  Not  dead  at  all,  but  worth  twenty  dead 
men  yet,  and  he  brought  you  safe  out  of  the  storm." 

"The  storm?" 

"  Yes,  the  storm,  woman.  There  warn  such  a  storm  on  the 
island  I  don't  know  the  years.  He  found  you  in  the  tholthan 
up  the  glen.  Lost  your  way  in  the  wind,  it's  like,  and  no 
wonder.  But  let  me  call  father.  Father  !  father  !  Chut  ! 
the  man's  as  deaf  as   little  Tom  llommv.     Father  1"   called 


2U0  l^Jii^   MANXMAN. 

Grannie,  bustling  about  at  the  stair-liead  in  a  half-demented 
way. 

There  v.-as  some  commotion  below,  and  the  voice  on  the 
stairs  was  saving,  '•  This  way  ?  No,  sir.  That  way,  if  you 
plaze." 

"  D'ye  hear  him,  Kii^ry  ? "  cried  Grannie,  putting  her  head 
back  into  the  room.  "  That's  the  man  himself.  Sitting  on 
the  bottom  step  same  as  an  ould  bulldog,  and  keeping  watch 
that  nobody  bothers  you.  The  good-naturedst  bulldog  breath- 
ing, though,  and  he  hasn't  had  a  vrink  on  the  night.  Saved 
your  life,  darling.     He  did  ;  yes,  he  did,  praise  God." 

At  mention  of  the  tholthau,  Kate  had  remembered  every- 
thing. She  di'opped  back  on  the  pillow,  and  cried,  in  a  voice 
of  pain,  "  Why  couldn't  he  leave  me  to  die  ? " 

Grannie  chuckled  knowingly  at  that,  and  wiped  her  eyes 
with  the  corner  of  her  apion.  "  The  bogh  is  herself,  for  sure. 
When  they're  wishing  themselves  dead  they're  always  mend- 
ing. Father  I  But  I'll  go  down  instead.  Lie  stili,  bogh,  lie 
still  ! " 

The  voice  of  Grannie  went  muffled  down  the  stairs  with 
many  ''Aw  dears,  avv'  dears  1"  and  then  crackled  from  below 
through  the  floor  and  the  unceiled  joists,  saying  sharply  but 
with  a  tremor,  too,  "'  Nancy  Joe.  why  aren't  you  taking  a  cup 
of  something  upstairs,  woman  ? " 

"  Goodness  me,  Mistress  Cregeen,  is  it  true  for  all  i "  said 
Nancy. 

"  Why,  of  course  it's  true.  Do  you  think  a  poor  child  is 
going  ffisting  for  ever  ? " 

"  What's  that  ? "  shouted  the  familiar  voice  again.  "  Was 
it  herself  you  were  spaking  to  in  the  dairy  loft,  Grannie  ? " 

"Who  else,  man  ?"  said  Grannie,  and  then  there  was  a 
general  tumult. 

"  Aw,  the  joy  !  Aw,  the  delight  I  Gough  bless  me,  Gran- 
nie, I  was  thinking  she  was  for  spaking  no  more." 

"  Out  of  the  way,"  cried  Nancy,  as  if  pushing  past  some- 
body to  whip  the  kettle  on  to  the  fire.  "  These  men  creatures 
have  no  more  rising  in  their  hearts  than  bread  without  balm." 

''You're  balm  enough  yourself,  Nancy,  for  a  quiet  hus- 
band. But  lend  me  a  hould  of  the  bellows  there — I'll  blow 
up  like  blazes." 

Caesar  came  into  the  house  on  the  top  of  this  commotion, 


iMAN    AM)    WOMAN.  w, ,  [ 

grumbling'  as  he  stepped  over  the  porch,  "  Tlie  wind  has  taluMi 
half  the  stacks  of  my  hajifgard,  mother." 

''No  matter,  sir,"  shouted  Pete.  ''The  best  of  your  Melliah 
is  saved  upstairs." 

''  Is  she  herself  ?  "  said  Ca}sar.     "  Prai.se  His  name  !  " 

And  over  tiie  furious  puffing  and  panting  and  quacking  of 
the  bellows  and  the  cracking  and  roaring  of  the  lire,  the  voice 
of  Pete  came  in  gusts  through  the  floor,  ci'ying,  "I'll  go  mad 
with  the  joy  !  I  will  ;  yes,  I  will,  and  nobody  shall  stop  me 
neither." 

The  house,  which  seemed  to  have  been  holding  its  breath 
since  the  storm,  now  broke  into  a  ripple  of  laughter.  It  be- 
gan in  the  kitchen,  it  ran  up  the  stairs,  it  crept  through  the 
chinks  ni  the  floor,  it  went  over  the  roof.  But  Kate  lay  on 
her  pillow  and  moaned,  and  turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

Presently  Nancy  Joe  appeared  in  the  bedroom,  making 
herself  tidy  at  the  doorway  with  a  turn  of  the  hand  over  her 
hair.  ''  Mercy  on  me  !  "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  at  the 
fii*st  sight  of  Kate's  face,  "who  w^as  the  born  blockhead  that 
said  the  girl's  wedding  was  as  like  to  be  in  the  churchyard  as 
in  the  church  ?  " 

*'  That's  me,"  said  a  deep  voice  from  the  middle  of  the 
stall's,  and  then  Nancy  clashed  the  door  back  and  poured  Pete 
into  Kate  in  a  broadside. 

"It  was  Pete  that  done  it,  though,"  she  said.  "  You  can't 
expect  much  sense  of  the  like,  but  still  and  for  all  he  saved 
your  life,  Kitty.  Dr.  Mylechreest  says  so.  '  If  the  girl  had 
been  lying  out  another  hour,'  says  he And,  my  good- 
ness, the  fond  of  you  that  man  is  ;  it's  wonderful  !  Twisting 
and  turning  all  day  yesterday  on  the  bottom  step  yonder  same 
as  a  live  conger  on  the  quay,  but  looking  as  soft  about  the 
eyes  as  if  he'd  been  a  week  out  of  the  water.  And  now  !  my 
sakes,  noiv !  D'ye  hear  him,  Kirry  ?  He's  fit  to  burst  the 
bellows.  No  use,  though — he's  a  shocking  fine  ycung  fellow 
—he's  all  that.  .  .  .  But  just  listen  !  " 

There  was  a  fissing  sound  from  below,  and  a  sense  of  burn- 
ing. "  What  do  I  always  say  ?  You  can  never  trust  a  man 
to  have  sense  enough  to  take  it  ofJ".  That's  the  kettle  on  the 
boil." 

Nancy  went  flopping  downstairs,  where  with  furious  woi-ds 
she   rated   Pete,   who    laughed    immoderately.     Caesar  cauie 


202  'i^Hl"^   MANXMAN. 

next.  He  had  taken  off  his  boots  and  was  walking  lightly  in 
his  stockings  ;  but  Kate  felt  his  approach  by  his  asthmatic 
breathing.  As  he  stepped  in  at  the  door  he  cried,  in  the  high 
pitch  of  the  preacher,  "Praise  the  Lord,  O  ray  soul,  and  all 
that  is  within  me  praise  His  holy  name  ! "  Then  he  fell  to 
the  praise  of  Pete  as  well. 

"  He  brought  you  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  and  the  mouth 
of  Satan.  It  was  a  sign,  Katherine,  and  we  can't  do  better 
than  follow  the  Spirit's  leading.  He  saved  your  life,  woman, 
and  that's  giv^ing  him  the  right  to  have  and  to  hould  it. 
Well,  I've  only  one  child  in  this  life,  but,  if  it's  the  Lord's 
will,  I'm  willing.  He  was  always  my  white-headed  boy,  and 
he  has  made  his  independent  fortune  in  a  matter  of  five  years' 
time." 

The  church  bell  began  to  toll,  and  Kate  started  up  and  lis- 
tened. 

"  Only  the  Dempster's  funeral,  Kitty,"  said  Caesar.  ''  They 
were  for  burying  him  to-morrow,  but  men  that  drink  don't 
keep.  They'll  be  putting  him  in  the  family  vault  at  Lezayre 
yn  ith  his  father,  the  staunch  ould  Rechabite.  Many  a  good 
cow  has  a  bad  calf,  you  see,  and  that's  bad  news  for  a  man's 
children  ;  but  many  a  good  calf  is  from  a  bad  cow,  and  that's 
good  news  for  the  man  himself.  It's  been  the  way  with  Peter 
anyway,  for  the  Lord  has  delivered  him  and  prospered  him, 
and  I'm  hearing  on  the  best  authority  he  has  five  thousand 
golden  sovereigns  sent  home  to  Mr.  Dumbell's  bank  at  Doug- 
las." 

Grannie  came  up  with  a  basin  of  beef -tea,  and  Caesar  was 
hustled  out  of  the  room. 

'•  Come  now,  bogh  ;  take  a  spoonful,  and  I'll  lave  you  to 
youi'self,"  said  Grannie. 

"Yes,  leave  me  to  myself,"  said  Kate,  sipping  wearily  ;  and 
then  Grannie  went  off  with  the  basin  in  her  hand. 

"  Has  she  taken  it  ?  "  said  some  one  below. 

''Look  at  that,  if  you  plaze,"  said  Grannie  in  a  jubilant 
tone  ;  and  Kate  knew  that  the  empty  basin  was  being  shown 
around. 

Kate  lay  back  on  the  pillow,  listened  to  the  tolling  of  the 
bell,  and  shuddered.  She  thought  it  a  ghostly  thing  that  the 
first  voice  she  had  heard  on  coming  as  from  another  world 
had  been  the  voice  of  Pete,  and  the  first  name  dinned  into  her 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  vj,,;; 

ems  had  been  Pete's  name.  The  procession  of  tlie  Deemster's 
funeral  passed  the  house,  and  she  closed  lier  eyes  and  seemed 
to  see  it — the  coffin  on  the  open  cart,  the  men  on  horseback 
riding"  beside  it,  and  then  tlie  horses  tied  up  to  posts  and  ^ates 
about  the  churchyard,  and  the  crowd  of  men  of  all  conditions 
at  the  grave-side.  In  hei:  mind's  eye,  Kate  was  searching 
through  that  crowd  for  somebody.  Was  he  there  ?  Had  he 
heard  what  liad  hai)pened  to  her  ( 

She  fell  into  a  doze,  and  was  awakened  by  a  horse's  step 
on  the  road,  and  llie  voices  of  two  men  talking  as  they  came 
nearer. 

''Man  alive,  the  joy  Vn\  taking  to  see  you  I  The  tally- 
gi'apli  ?  Coorse  not.  Knew  I'd  find  you  at  the  funei'al, 
though."     It  was  Pete. 

"  But  I  meant  to  come  over  after  it."  It  was  Philip,  and 
Kate's  heart  stood  still. 

The  voices  were  smothered  for  a  moment  (as  the  buzzing  is 
when  the  bees  enter  the  hive),  and  then  began  with  a  sharper 
ring  from  the  rooms  below. 

"  How's  she  now,  Mrs.  Cregeen  ?''  said  the  voice  of  Philip. 

"  Better,  sir — much  better,"  answered  Grannie. 

"No  return  of  the  unconsciousness  ?" 

"Aw,  no,"  said  Grannie. 

"Was  she" — Kate  thought  the  voice  faltered — "was  she 
delirious  ? " 

"  Not  rambling  at  all,"  replied  Grannie. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Philip,  and  Kate  felt  a  long  breath  of 
relief  go  through  the  air. 

'•  I  didn't  hear  of  it  until  this  morning,"  said  Philip.  ''  The 
postman  told  me  at  breakfast-time,  and  I  called  on  Dr.  Myle- 

chreest  coming  out.     If  I  had  knowm I  didn't  sleep  much 

last  night,  anyway  ;  but  if  I  had  ever  imagined " 

"  You're  right  good  to  the  girl,  sir,"  said  Grannie,  and  then 
Kate,  listening  intently,  caught  a  quavering  sound  of  protesta- 
tion. 

"  'Deed  you  are,  though,  and  always  have  been,"  said  Gran- 
nie, "and  I'm  saying  it  before  Pete  here,  that  ought  to  know 
and  doesn't.'' 

"Don't  I,  though  ?"  came  in  the  other  voice — the  resound- 
ing voice— the  voice  full  of  laughter  and  teal's  together.  "  But 
I  do  that,  Grannie,  same  as  if  I'd  been  here  and  .seen  it.  Lave 
14 


204  THE  MANXMAN. 

it  to  me  to  know  Phil  Christian.  I've  summered  and  wintered 
the  man,  haven't  I  ?  He's  timber  that  doesn't  start,  mother, 
blow  high,  blow  low." 

Kate  heard  another  broken  sound  as  of  painful  protest,  and 
then  with  a  sickening  sense  she  covered  up  her  head  that  she 
might  hear  no  more. 

Xil. 

She  was  weak  and  over-wrought,  and  she  fell  asleep  as  she 
lay  covered.  While  she  slept  a  babel  of  meaningless  voices 
kept  clashing  in  her  ears,  and  her  own  voice  haunted  her  per- 
petually. When  she  awoke  it  was  broad  morning  again,  and 
the  house  was  full  of  the  smell  of  boiling  stock-fish.  By  that 
she  knew  it  was  another  day,  and  the  hour  of  early  breakfast. 
She  heard  the  click  cf  cups  and  saucers  on  the  kitchen  table, 
the  step  of  her  father  coming  in  from  the  mill,  and  then  the 
heartsome  voice  of  Pete  talking  of  the  changes  in  the  island 
since  he  went  away.  New  houses,  promenades,  iron  piers, 
breakwaters,  lakes,  towers — wonderful  I  extraordinary  !  tre- 
menjous  I 

''  But  the  bo\'s — where's  the  Manx  boys  at  all  ? "  said  Pete. 
"  Gone  like  a  flight  of  birds  to  Austrillya  and  Cleveland  and 
the  Cape,  and  I  don't  know  w^here.  Not  a  Manx  house  now^ 
that  hasn't  one  of  the  boys  foreign.  And  the  houses  them- 
selves— where's  the  ould  houses  and  the  crofts  ?  Felled,  all 
felled  or  boarded  up.  And  the  boats— where's  the  boats  ? 
Lying  rotting  at  the  top  of  the  harbour." 

Grannie's  step  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  Pete's  loud  voice 
drooped  to  a  whisper.    "  How's  herself  this  morning,  mother  ? " 

"  Sleeping  quiet  and  nice  when  I  came  downstairs,"  said 
Grannie. 

"Will  I  be  seeing  her  myself  to-day.  think  you  ?"  asked 
Pete. 

"  I  don't  know  in  the  world,  but  I'll  ask.''  answered  Grannie. 

"  You're  an  angel,  Grannie,"  said  Pete,  "  a  reg'lar  ould  arch- 
angel." 

Kate  shuddered  with  a  new  fear.  It  was  clear  that  in  the 
eyes  of  her  people  the  old  relations  with  Pete  were  to  stand. 
Everybody  expected  her  to  marry  Pete;  everybody  seemed 
anxious  to  push  the  marriage  on. 


MAN    AND   WOMAN.  v.,,;, 

Grannie  came  up  with  her  breakfast,  pulled  aside  the  blind, 
and  opened  the  window. 

''Nancy  will  tidy  the  i-oom  a  taste,"  she  said  coaxingly, 
'and  then  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you'll  be  sendin^ji:  for  Pete." 

Kate  i-aised  a  cry  of  alarm. 

"Aw,  no  harm  when  a  girFs  poorly,"  said  Grannie,  "and 
her  promi^it  man  for  all." 

Kate  tried  to  protest  and  explain,  but  courage  failed  her. 
She  only  said,  "  Not  yet,  mother.     I'm  not  lit  to  see  him  yet." 

"Say  no  more  about  it.  Not  to-day  at  all — to-morrow 
maybe,"  said  Grannie,  and  Kate  clutched  at  the  word,  and  an- 
swered eagerly — 

"Yes,  tomorrow,  motlier;  to-morrow  maybe." 

Before  noon  Philip  had  come  again.  Kate  heard  his  horse's 
step  on  the  road,  trotting  hard  from  the  direction  of  Peel.  He 
drew  up  at  the  porch,  but  did  not  alight,  and  Grannie  went 
out  to  him. 

"  I'll  not  come  in  to-day.  Mi's.  Cregeen,"  he  said.  "  Does 
she  continue  to  improve  ? " 

"As  nice  as  nice,  sir,"  said  Grannie. 

Kate  crept  out  of  bed,  stole  to  the  window,  hid  behind  the 
curtains,  and  listened  intently. 

''  What  a  mercy  all  goes  w^ell,"  he  said ;  Kate  could  hear 
the  heaving  of  his  breath.     "  Is  Pete  about  ? " 

"  No,  but  gone  to  Ramsey,  sir,"  said  Grannie.  "  It's  like 
you'll  meet  him  if  you  are  going  on  to  Balluro." 

"  I  must  be  getting  back  to  business,"  said  Philip,  and  the 
horse  swirled  across  the  road. 

"  Did  you  ride  from  Douglas  on  purpose,  then  ?"  said  Gran- 
nie, and  Philip  answered  with  an  audible  effort — 

"I  was  anxious.  What  an  escape  she  has  had!  I  could 
scarcely  sleep  last  night  for  thinking  of  it." 

Kate  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  to  keep  back  the  cry  that 
was  bubbling  up,  and  her  mother's  voice  came  thick  and  deep. 

"The  Lord's  blessing.  Master  Philip "  she  began,  but  the 

horse's  feet  stamped  out  everything  as  it  leapt  to  a  gallop  in 
going  off. 

Kate  listened  where  she  knelt  until  the  last  beat  of  the 
hoofs  had  died  away  in  the  di.stance,  and  then  she  cre])t  back 
to  bed  and  covered  up  her  head  in  the  clothes  as  before,  but 
with  a  storm  of  other  feelings.     "  He  loves  me,"  slie  told  her- 


0(16  THE   MANXMAX. 

self  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart.  "  He  loves  me — he  loves  me 
still !  And  he  v/ill  iievei',  never,  never  see  me  married  to  any- 
body else." 

She  felt  an  immense  relief  now,  and  suddenly  found  strength 
to  think  of  facing  Pete.  It  even  occurred  to  her  to  send  for 
him  at  once,  as  a  first  step  towards  removing  the  impression 
that  the  old  relations  were  to  remain.  She  would  be  quiet,  she 
would  be  cold,  she  would  show  by  her  manner  that  Pete  was 
impossible,  she  would  break  the  news  gently. 

Pete  came  like  the  light  at  Nancy's  summons.  Kate  heard 
him  on  the  stall's  whispering  with  Nancy  and  breathing  heav- 
ily, Nancy  was  hectoring  it  over  him  and  pulling  him  about 
to  make  him  presentable. 

"  Here,"  whispered  Nancy, ''  take  the  redyng  comb  and  lash 
your  hair  out,  it's  all  thro  ugh -othei*s.  And  listen— you've  got 
to  be  quiet.  Promise  me  you'll  be  quiet.  She's  wake  and  low 
and  nervous,  so  no  kissing.     D'ye  hear  me  now,  no  kissing." 

''Aw,  kissing  makes  no  noise  to  spake  of,  woman,''  whis- 
pered Pete;  and  then  he  was  in  the  room. 

Kate  saw  him  come,  a  towering  dark  figure  between  her 
and  the  door.  He  did  not  speak  at  first,  but  slid  down  to  the 
chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  modestly,  meekly,  reverently,  as 
if  he  had  entered  a  sanctuary.  His  hand  rested  on  his  knee, 
and  she  noticed  that  the  wrist  was  hairy  and  tattooed  with  the 
three  legs  of  Man. 

"  Is  it  you,  Pete  ? "  she  asked ;  and  then  he  said  in  a  low 
tone,  almost  in  a  whisper,  as  if  speaking  to  himself  in  a  hush 
of  awe — 

"  It's  her  own  voice  again !  I've  heard  it  in  my  drames 
these  five  years." 

He  looked  helplessly  about  him  for  a  moment,  fixed  his 
watery  eyes  on  Nancy  as  if  he  wanted  to  burst  into  sobs  but 
dare  not  for  fear  of  the  noise,  then  turned  on  his  chair  and 
seemed  on  the  point  of  taking  to  flight.  But  just  at  that  in- 
stant his  dog,  which  had  followed  him  into  the  room,  planted 
its  forelegs  on  the  counterpane  and  looked  impudently  into 
Kate's  face. 

*'  Down,  Dempster,  down  !  "  cried  Pete  ;  and  after  that,  the 
ice  being  broken  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Pete  was  his  own 
man  once  more. 

"  Is  that  your  dog,  Pete  ? "  said  Kate. 


MAN   AND   WOiMAN.  o,,; 

"Aw,  no,  Kato,  but  Tin  his  mm,'"  said  Peto.  "lie  docs 
what  he  likes  with  lue,  anyway.  Caught  nie  out  in  Kiniber- 
ley  and  feU^heil  nie  home/' 

"  Is  he  old  ? " 

"  Old,  d'ye  say  ?  He's  one  of  the  lost  ten  tribes  of  dogs, 
and  behaves  as  if  he'd  got  to  inherit  the  earth." 

She  felt  Pete's  big  black  eye.s  shining  on  her. 

"  -My  gracious,  Kitty,  what  a  woman  you're  growing, 
though  !  "  he  said. 

'"  Am  I  so  much  changed  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Changed,  is  it  ?"  he  cried.  "Gough  bless  me  heart  !  the 
nice  little  thing  you  were  when  we  used  to  play  fishermen 
together  down  at  Coriiaa  Harbour — d'ye  remember  ?  The 
ould  kipper-box  rolling  on  a  block  for  a  boat  at  sea — do  you 
mind  it  ?  Yourself  houlding  a  bit  of  a  bi'oken  broomstick  in 
the  rope  handle  for  a  mast,  and  me  woi-king  the  potato-dibber 
on  the  ground,  first  port  and  then  starboard,  for  rudder  and 
wind  and  oar  and  tide.  *  Mortal  dirty  weather  this,  cap'n?' 
'Aw,  yes,  woman,  big  sea  extraordinary '— d'ye  mind  it 
Kirryf" 

Kate  tried  to  laugh  a  little  and  to  say  what  a  long  time  ago 
it  was  since  then.  But  Pete,  being  started,  laughed  uproar- 
iously, slapped  his  knee,  and  rattled  on. 

"  Up  at  the  mill,  too — d'ye  remember  that  now  ?  Youi*self 
with  the  top  of  a  barrel  for  a  flower  basket,  holding  it  'kimbo 
at  your  lil  hip  and  shouting,  '  Violets  !  Swate  violets  1  Fresh 
violets!'"  (He  mocked  her  silvery  treble  in  his  lusty  bari- 
tone and  roared  with  laughter.) 

"  And  then  me,  woman,  d'ye  mind  me  ?— me,  with  the  pig- 
stye  gate  atop  of  my  head  for  a  fish-board,  yelling,  ' Mackerel! 
Fine  ladies,  fresh  ladies,  and  bellies  as  big  as  bishops — Mack- 
er-el  ! '  Aw,  Kirry,  Kirry !  Aw,  the  dear  ould  times  gone  by ! 
Aw,  the  changes,  the  changes  !  .  .  .  Did  I  know  j-ou  then  ? 
Are  you  asking  mo  did  I  know  you  when  I  found  you  in  tlic 
glen  ?  Did  I  know  I  was  alive,  Kitty  ?  Did  I  know  the  wind 
was  howling  ?  Did  I  know  my  head  was  going  round  like  a 
comptiss,  and  my  heart  thumping  a  hundred  and  twenty 
pound  to  the  square  inch  ?  Did  I  kiss  you  and  kiss  you  while 
you  wei'e  lying  there  useless,  and  lift  you  up  and  hitch  your 
poor  limp  arn)s  around  my  neck,  and  carry  you  out  of  the 
dirty  ould  tholthan  that  was  going  to  bo  the  death  of  you- 


2(j8  THE   MAxNXMAN. 

the  first  job  I  was  doing  on  the  island,  too,  coming  back  to 
it.  .  .  .  Lord  save  us,  Kitty,  what  have  I  done  ? " 

Kate  had  dropped  back  on  the  pillow,  and  was  sobbing  as 
if  her  heart  would  break,  and  seeing  this,  Nancy  fell  on  Pete 
with  loud  reproaches,  took  the  man  by  the  shoulders  and  his 
dog  by  the  neck,  and  pushed  both  out  of  the  room. 

"  Out  of  it,"  cried  Nancy.  ''  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  be  quiet  ? 
You  great  blethering  omatliaun,  you  shall  come  no  more." 

Abashed,  ashamed,  humiliated,  and  quiet  enough  now, 
Pete  went  slowly  down  the  stairs. 


XIII. 

Late  that  night  Kate  heard  Caesar  and  her  mother  talking 
together  as  they  were  going  to  bed.     Caesar  was  saying — 

"  I  got  him  on  the  track  of  a  good  house,  and  he  went  off 
to  Ramsey  this  moniiug  to  put  a  sight  on  it." 

"  Dear  heart  alive,  father  !  "  Grannie  answered,  "  Pete  isn't 
home  till  a  week  come  Saturday." 

"  The  young  man  is  warm  on  the  wedding,"  said  Caesar, 
"  and  he  has  money,  and  store  is  no  sore." 

"But  the  girl's  not  fit  for  it,  'deed  she  isn't,"  said  Grannie. 

''  If  she's  wake,"  said  Caesar,  "  she'll  be  no  worse  for  saj'ing 
'  I  will,'  and  when  she's  said  it  she'll  have  time  enough  to  get 
better." 

Kate  trembled  with  fear.  The  matter  of  her  marriage  with 
Pete  was  going  on  without  her,  A  sort  of  supernatural  power 
seemed  to  be  pushing  it  along.  Nobody  asked  if  she  wished 
it,  nobody  questioned  that  she  did  so.  It  was  taken  for  granted 
that  the  old  relations  would  stand.  As  soon  as  she  could  go 
about  she  would  be  expected  to  marry  Pete.  Pete  himself 
Avould  expect  it,  because  he  believed  he  had  her  promise  ;  her 
mother  would  expect  it.  because  she  had  always  thought  of  it 
as  a  thmg  understood  ;  her  father  would  expect  it,  because 
Pete's  prosperity  had  given  him  a  new  view  of  Pete's  piety 
and  pedigree  ;  and  Nancy  Joe  would  expect  it,  too,  if  only  be- 
cause she  was  still  haunted  by  her  old  bugbear,  the  dark 
shadow  of  Ross  Christian.  There  was  only  one  way  to  break 
down  these  expectations,  and  that  w^as  to  speak  out.  But  how 
was  a  girl  to  speak  ?    What  was  she  to  say  ? 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  2U9 

Kate  pretended  to  be  ill.  Three  days  Ioniser  slie  lay,  like 
a  hunted  wolf  in  its  hole,  keeping  her  bod  from  sheer  dread 
of  the  consequences  of  leaving  it.  The  fourth  day  was  Sun- 
day. It  was  morning,  'and  the  church  bells  were  ringing. 
Ccesar  had  shouted  from  his  bedroom  for  some  one  to  tie  his 
bow,  then  for  some  one  to  button  his  black  gloves.  He  had 
gone  off  at  length  with  the  footsteps  of  the  i)eople  stepi)ing 
round  to  chapel.  The  tii'st  hymn  had  been  started,  and  its 
doleful  notes  were  trailing  through  the  mill  walls.  Kate  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  and  the  window  of  her  room  was  open. 
Over  the  droning  of  the  hymn  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  road.  They  stopped  at  a  little  distance,  and  then 
came  on  again,  with  the  same  two  voices  as  before. 

Pete  was  talking  with  great  eagerness.  ''Plenty  of  house, 
aw  plenty,  plenty,"  he  was  saying.  "Elm  Cottage  they're 
calling  it  — the  slate  one  with  the  ould  fir-tree  behind  the 
Coort  House  and  by  the  lane  to  Claughbane.  Dry  as  a  bone 
and  clane  as  a  gull's  wing.  You  could  lie  with  your  back  to 
the  wall  and  ate  off  the  floor.  Taps  inside  and  water  as  white 
as  gin.  Pve  been  buying  the  cabin  of  the  'Mona's  Isle'  for  a 
summer-house  in  the  garden.  Got  a  figurehead  for  the  porch 
too,  and  I'll  have  an  anchor  for  the  gate  before  I'm  done.  Aw, 
I'm  bound  to  have  everything  nice  for  her." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  in  which  nothing  was  heard  but 
the  step  of  the  horse,  and  then  Philip  said  in  a  faltering  voice, 
''  But  isn't  this  being  rather  in  a  hurry,  Pete  ?" 

"  Short  coorting's  the  best  coorting,  and  ours  has  been  long 
enough  anyway,"  said  Pete.  They  had  drawn  up  at  the  porclt, 
and  Pete's  laugh  came  in  at  the  window. 

"But  think  how  weak  she  is,"  said  Philip.  "She  hasn't 
even. left  her  bed  yet,  has  she  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  of  coorse,  sartenly,"  said  Pete,  in  a  steadier 
voice,  "  if  the  girl  isn't  fit " 

"  It's  so  sudden,  you  see,"  said  Philip.  "  Has  she — has  she 
— consented?" 

"Not  to  say  consented "  began  Pete;  and  Philip  took 

him  up  and  said  quickly,  eagerly,  hotly — 

"She  can't— I'm  sure  she  can't." 

There  was  silence  again,  broken  only  by  the  horse's  impa- 
tient pawing,  and  then  Philip  said  more  calmly,  "Let  Dr. 
Mylechreest  see  her  first,  at  all  events." 


210  THE  MANXMAN. 

"Fm  not  a  man   for  skinning  the   meadow  to  the  sod, 

no "  said    Pete,   m   a  doleful   tone;   but  Kate   heard  no 

more. 

She  was  trembling  with  a  new  thought.  It  was  only  a 
shadowy  suggestion  as  yet,  and  at  first  she  tried  to  beat  it  back. 
But  it  came  again,  it  forced  itself  upon  her,  it  mastered  her, 
she  could  not  resist  it. 

The  way  to  break  the  fate  that  was  pursuing  her  was  to 
make  Philip  speak  out!  The  wa^'^  to  stop  the  marriage  with 
Pete  was  to  compel  Philip  to  marry  her!  He  thought  she 
would  never  consent  to  marry  Pete — what  if  he  were  given  to 
understand  that  she  had  consented.  That  was  the  way  to  gain 
the  victory  over  Philip,  the  way  to  punish  him ! 

He  would  not  blame  her — he  would  lay  tlie  blame  at  the 
door  of  chance,  of  fate,  of  her  people.  He  would  think  they 
were  forcing  this  marriage  upon  her— the  mother  out  of  love 
of  Pete,  the  father  out  of  love  of  Pete's  money,  and  Nancy  out 
of  fear  of  Ross  Christian.  He  would  know  that  she  could 
not  struggle  because  she  could  not  speak.  He  would  believe 
she  was  yielding  against  her  will,  in  spite  of  her  love,  in  the 
teeth  of  their  intention.  He  would  think  of  licr  as  a  victim, 
as  a  martja',  as  a  sacrifice. 

It  was  a  deceit— a  small  deceit;  it  looked  so  harmless,  too — 
so  innocent,  almost  humorous,  half  ridiculous;  and  she  was  a 
woman,  and  she  could  not  put  it  away.  Love,  love,  love !  It 
would  be  her  excuse  and  her  forgiveness.  She  had  appealed 
to  Philip  himself  and  in  vain.  Now  she  would  pretend  to  go 
on  with  her  old  relations.  It  was  so  little  to  do,  and  the  effects 
were  so  certain.  In  jealousy  and  in  terror  Philip  v>'Ould  step 
out  of  himself  and  claim  her. 

She  had  craft — all  hungry  things  have  craft.  She  had  ink- 
lings of  ambition,  a  certain  love  of  luxury,  and  desire  to  be  a 
lady.  To  get  Philip  was  to  get  everything.  Love  would  be 
satisfied,  ambition  fulfilled,  the  aims  of  refinement  reached. 
Why  not  risk  the  great  stake  ? 

Nancy  came  to  tidy  the  room,  and  Kate  said,  "Where's 
Pete  all  this  time,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  Sitting  in  the  fire-seat  this  half-hour,"  said  Nancy.  I  don't 
know  in  the  world  what's  come  over  the  man.  He's  rocking 
and  moaning  there  like  a  cow  licking  a  dead  calf." 

"Would  he  like  to  come  up,  think  you  ?" 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  211 

"  Don't  ask  the  man  twice  if  you  want  him  to  say  no,"  said 
Nancy. 

Bhishing  and  stammering:,  and  trying  to  straighten  liis 
Wack  curls,  Pete  came  at  Nancy's  call. 

Kate  had  few  qualms.  The  wound  she  had  received  from 
Philip  had  left  her  conscienceless  towards  Pete.  Yet  she 
turned  her  head  a  little  sideways  as  she  welcomed  him. 

"Are  you  better,  then,  Kiri*y  V'-  said  Pete  timidly. 

"Fm  nearly  as  well  as  ever,"  she  answered. 

"  You  are,  though  ? "  said  Pete.  "  Then  you'll  be  down 
soon,  it's  like,  eh  ? " 

"I  hope  so,  Pete— quite  soon." 

''And  fit  for  anything,  now — yes  ?'* 

"Oh,  yes,  fit  for  anything." 

Pete  laughed  from  his  heart  like  a  boy.  "  I'll  take  a  slieu 
round  to  Ballure  and  tell  Philip  immadiently." 

"Philip  ?"  said  Kate,  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"  He  was  saying  this  morning  you  wouldn't  be  equal  to  it, 
Kirry." 

"Equal  to  what,  Pete  ?" 

"Getting — going — having— that's  to  say — well,  you  know, 
putting  a  sight  on  the  parson  himself  one  of  these  days,  that's 
the  fact."  And,  to  cover  his  confusion,  Pete  laughed  till  the 
scraas  of  the  roof  began  to  sni]). 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Kate  said,  with  a 
cough  and  a  stammer  and  her  head  aside,  "Is  that  so  very 
tiring,  Pete  ? " 

Pete  leapt  from  his  chair  and  laughed  again  like  a  man 
demented.  "D'ye  say  so,  Kitty?  The  word  then,  darling — 
the  word  in  my  ear — as  soft  as  soft " 

He  was  leaning  over  the  bed,  but  Kate  drew  away  from 
him,  and  Nancy  pulled  him  back,  saying,  "Get  off  with  you, 
you  goosey  gander  !  What  for  should  you  bother  a  poor 
girl  to  know  if  sugar's  sweet,  and  if  she's  willing  to  change  a 
sweetheart  for  a  husband  ? " 

It  was  done.  One  act — nay,  half  an  act;  a  word — nay,  no 
word  at  all,  but  only  silence.     The  daring  venture  was  afoot. 

Grannie  came  up  with  Kate's  dinner  that  day,  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks,  felt  them  hot,  wagged  her  head  wisely,  and 
whispered,  "/  know — you  needn't  tell  nic!  " 


212  THE   MANXMAN. 


XIV. 


The  last  hymn  was  sung,  Csesar  came  home  from  chapel, 
changed  back  from  his  best  to  his  work-day  clothes,  and  then 
there  was  talking  and  laughicg  in  the  kitchen  amid  the  jin- 
gling of  plates  and  the  vigorous  rattling  of  knives  and  forks. 

"  Phil  must  be  my  best  man,"'  said  Pete.  "  He'll  be  back  to 
Douglas  now,  but  I'll  get  you  to  write  me  a  line,  Cagsar,  and 
ask  him." 

*'  Do  you  hold  with  long  engagements,  Pete  ?"  said  Grannie. 

"  A  week,"  said  Pete,  with  the  air  of  a  judge  ;  "  not  much 
less  anyway — not  of  a  rule,  you  know." 

"You  goose,"  cried  Nancy,  "it  must  be  three  Sundays  for 
the  banns." 

"Then  John  the  Clerk  shall  get  them  going  this  evening," 
said  Pete.  "  Nancy  had  the  pull  of  me  there,  Grannie.  Not 
being  in  the  habit  of  getting  married,  I  clane  forgot  about  the 
banns." 

John  the  Clerk  came  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was  some 
lusty  disputation, 

"  We  must  have  bridesmaids  and  wedding-cakes,  Pete— it's 
only  proper,"  said  Nancy. 

"Aw,  yes,  and  tobacco  and  rum,  and  everything  respect- 
able," said  Pete. 

"  And  the  parson — mind  it's  the  parson  now,"  said  Grannie; 
"none  of  their  nasty  high-bailiffs.  I  don't  know  in  the  world 
how  a  dacent  woman  can  rest  in  her  bed " 

"Aw,  the  parson,  of  coorse — and  the  parson's  wife,  maybe," 
said  Pete. 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  it  for  you  for  to-morrow  fortnight," 
said  John  the  Clerk  impressively,  and  there  was  some  clap- 
ping of  hands,  quickly  suppressed  by  Csesar,  with  mutterings 
of— 

"  Popery  !  clane  Popery,  sir  !  Can't  a  person  commit 
matrimony  without  a  parson  bothering  a  man  ? " 

Then  Cffisar  squared  his  elbows  across  the  table  and  wrote 
the  letter  to  Philip.  Pete  never  stood  sponsor  for  anything  so 
pious. 

"Respected  and  Honoured  Sir,— I  write  first  to  thee  that  it 
hath  been  borne  in  on  my  mind  (strong  to  believe  the  Lord 
hath  spoken)  to  marry  on  Katherine  Cregeen,  only  beloved 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  213 

daughter  of  Coesar  Cregeen,  a  respectable  man  and  a  local 
preacher,  in  whose  house  I  tarry,  being  free  to  use  all  his 
means  of  grace.  Wedding  to-morrow  fortnight  at  Kirk 
Christ,  Lezayre,  eleven  o'clock  forenoon,  and  the  Lord  make 
it  profitable  to  my  soul. — With  love  and  reverence,  thy  serv- 
ant, and  I  trust  the  Lord's,  Peter  Quilliam." 

Having  written  this,  Caesar  read  it  aloud  with  proper  eleva- 
tion of  pitch.  Grannie  wiped  her  eyes,  and  Pete  said,  "In- 
dited beautiful,  sir — only  you  haven't  asked  him." 

"My  pen's  getting  crosslegs,"  said  Ca3sar,  "but  that'll  do 
foranN.  B." 

"N.  B. — Will  you  come  for  my  best  man  ?" 

Then  there  was  more  talk  and  more  laughter.  "You're  a 
lucky  fellow,  Pete,"  said  Pete  himself.  "  My  sailor,  you  are, 
though.  She's  as  sweet  as  clover  with  the  bumbces  humming 
over  it,  and  as  warm  as  a  gorse  bush  when  the  summer's  gone." 

And  then,  aflPection  being  infectious  beyond  all  maladies 
known  to  mortals,  Nancy  Joe  was  heard  to  say,  "I  believe  in 
my  heart  I  must  be  having  a  man  myself  before  long,  or  I'll 
be  losing  the  notion.'' 

"  D'ye  hear  that,  boys  ? "  shouted  Pete.  "  Don't  all  spake 
at  once." 

"Too  late — I've  lost  it," said  Nancy, and  there  was  j^et  more 
laughter. 

To  put  an  end  to  this  frivolity,  Caesar  raised  a  hymn,  and 
they  sang  it  together  with  cheerful  voices.  Then  Caesar  prayed 
appropriately,  John  the  Clerk  improvised  responses,  and  Pete 
Avent  out  and  sat  on  the  bottom  step  in  the  lobby  and  smoked 
up  the  stairs,  so  that  Kate  in  the  bedroom  should  not  feel  too 
lonely. 


XV. 

Meanwhile  Kate,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  humiliation, 
self-reproach,  horror  of  herself,  and  dread  of  everytliing,  lay 
with  cheeks  ablaze  and  her  head  buried  in  the  bedclothes. 
She  had  no  longer  any  need  to  pretend  to  be  sick  ;  she  was 
now  sick  in  reality.  Fate  had  threatened  her.  She  had  chal- 
lenged it.  They  were  gambling  together.  The  stake  was  her 
love,  her  life,  her  doom. 

By  the  next  day  she  had  worked  herself  into  a  nervous 


214  THE   MANXMAN. 

fever.  Dr.  Myleclireest  came  to  see  her,  unbidden  of  the 
family.  He  was  one  of  those  tall,  basliful  men  who,  in  their 
eagerness  to  be  gone,  seem  always  to  hav^e  urgent  business 
somewhere  else.  After  a  single  glance  at  her  and  a  few  mut- 
tered syllables,  he  went  off  hurriedly,  as  if  some  one  were 
waiting  for  him  round  the  corner.  But  on  going  do'wnstairs 
he  met  Caesar,  who  asked  him  how  he  found  her. 

''  Feverish,  very  ;  keep  her  in  bed,"  he  answered,  ''  As  for 
this  marriage,  it  must  be  put  olf.  She's  exciting  herself,  and 
I  ^von't  answer  for  the  consequences.  The  thing  has  fallen 
too  suddenly.  To  tell  you  the  truth — this  way,  Mr.  Cregeen 
—I  am  afraid  of  a  malady  of  the  brain." 

"  Tut,  tut,  doctor,"  said  Ca?sar. 

"Very  well,  if  you  know^  better.  Good-day  !  But  let  the 
wedding  wait.  Tract  dij  liooar — time  enough,  Mr.  Cregeen. 
A  right  good  Manx  maxim  for  once.     Put  it  otf — put  it  off  I  " 

"  It'«  not  my  jDutting  off,  doctor.  What  can  you  do  with  a 
man  that's  wanting  to  be  married  ?  You  can't  bridle  a  horse 
with  pincers." 

But  when  the  doctor  was  gone,  Caesar  said  to  Grannie, 
'•  Cut  out  the  bridesmaids  and  the  Avedding  cakes  and  the  fid- 
dles and  the  foolery,  and  let  the  girl  be  married  immadiently." 

"Dear  heart  alive,  father,  what's  all  the  hurry?"  said 
Grannie. 

"  And  Lord  bless  my  soul,  what's  all  the  fuss  ? "  said  Caesar. 
"  First  one  objecting  this,  then  another  objecting  that,  as  if 
everybody  was  intarmined  to  stop  the  thing.  It's  going  on, 
I'm  telling  you  ;  d'ye  hear  me  ?  There's  many  a  slip — but  no 
matter.  What's  written  vv^itli  the  pen  can't  be  cut  out  with 
the  axe,  so  lave  it  alone,  the  lot  of  you." 

Kate  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  exultation.  The  doctor  had  been 
sent  by  Philip,  It  was  Philip  who  was  trying  to  stop  the  mar- 
riage. He  would  never  be  able  to  bear  it  ;  he  would  claim  her 
soon.  It  might  be  to-day,  it  might  be  to-morrow,  it  might 
be  the  next  day.  The  odds  were  with  her.  Fate  was  being 
worsted.  Thus  she  clung  to  her  blind  faith  that  Philip  would 
intervene. 

That  was  Monday,  and  on  Tuesday  morning  Philip  came 
agam.  He  was  very  quiet,  but  the  heart  has  ears,  and  Kate 
heard  him.  Pete's  letter  had  reached  him.  and  she  could  see 
liis  white  face.     After  a  few  words  of  commonplace  conversa- 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  215 

tion,  he  drew  Pete  out  of  the  house.  What  had  lie  f^ot  to  say  ? 
Was  he  thinking  that  Pete  must  be  stopi)ed  at  all  hazards  ? 
Was  he  about  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  ?  Was  he  going  to 
tell  all  ?  Impossible  !  He  could  not  ;  he  dared  not  ;  it  was 
her  secret. 

Pete  came  back  to  the  house  alone,  looking  serious  and 
even  sad.  Kate  heard  him  exchange  a  few  words  with  her 
father  as  they  passed  through  the  lobby  to  the  kitchen.  Csesar 
was  saj'ing — 

"Stand  on  your  own  head,  sir,  that's  my  advice  to  you." 

In  the  intensity  of  her  torment  she  could  not  rest.  She 
sent  for  Pete. 

''  What  about  Philip  ? "  she  said.  "  Is  he  coming  ?  What 
has  he  been  telling  you  ? '' 

"  Bad  news,  Kate— very  bad,''  said  Pete. 

There  was  a  fearful  silence  for  a  moment.  It  was  like  the 
awful  hush  at  the  instant  when  the  tide  turns,  and  you  feel  as 
if  something  has  happened  to  the  world.  Then  Kate  hardened 
her  face  and  said,  ''What  is  it  ?" 

"  He's  ill.  and  wants  to  go  away  in  a  week.  He  can't  come 
to  the  v.edding,''  said  Pete. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Kate.  Her  heart  leapt  for  joy.  She 
could  not  help  it — she  laughed.  She  saw  through  Philip's 
excuse.  It  was  only  his  subterfuge— he  thought  Pete  would 
not  marry  without  him. 

"Aw,  but  you  never  seen  the  like,  though,  Kirry,"  said 
Pete;  "he  was  that  white  and  wake  and  narvous.  Work 
and  worry,  that's  the  size  of  it.  There's  nothing  done  in  this 
world  without  paying  the  price  of  it,  and  that's  as  true  as  gos- 
pel. '  The  sea's  calling  me,  Pete,'  says  he,  and  then  he  laughed, 
but  it  was  the  same  as  if  a  ghost  itself  was  grinning." 

In  the  selfishness  of  her  enfeebled  spirit,  Kate  still  rejoiced. 
Philip  was  sufferijig.  It  was  another  assurance  that  he  would 
come  to  her  relief. 

"  When  does  he  go  ? "  she  asked. 

"  On  Tuesday,"  answered  Pete. 

"Isn't  there  a  way  of  getting  a  Bishop's  license  to  marry  in 
a  week  ? "  said  Kate. 

"  But  will  you,  though  ? "  said  Pete,  with  a  shout  of  joy. 

"  Ask  Philip  first.     No  use  changing  if  Philip  can't  come." 

"  He  shall— he  must.     I  won't  take  No." 


216  THE   MANXMAN. 

"You  may  kiss  me  now/'  said  Kate,  and  Pete  plucked  her 
up  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

She  was  heart-dead  to  him  yet,  from  the  wound  that  Philip 
had  dealt  her,  but  at  the  touch  of  his  lips  a  feeling  of  horror 
seemed  to  cramp  all  her  limbs.  With  a  shudder  she  crept 
down  in  the  bed  and  hid  her  face,  hating  herself,  loathing 
herself,  wishing  hei*self  dead. 

He  stood  a  moment  by  her  side,  crying  like  a  big  boy  in 
his  great  happiness.  "I  don't  know  in  the  world  what  she 
sees  in  me  to  be  so  fond  of  me,  but  that's  the  way  with  the 
women  always,  God  bless  them  !  " 

She  did  not  lift  her  face,  and  he  stepped  quietly  to  the 
door.  Half-way  through  he  turned  about  and  raised  one  arm 
over  his  head.  ''God's  rest  and  God's  peace  be  with  you,  and 
may  the  man  that  gets  jou  keep  a  clane  heart  and  a  clane 
hand,  and  be  fit  for  the  good  woman  he's  won  for  his  wife.'' 

At  the  next  minute  he  went  tearing  down  the  stairs,  and 
the  kitchen  rang  with  his  laughter. 


XVI. 

Fate  scored  one.  Kate  had  been  telling  herself  that  Philip 
was  tired  of  her,  that  he  did  not  love  her  any  longer,  that  hav- 
ing taken  all  he  could  take  he  desired  to  be  done  with  lier, 
that  he  was  trying  to  forget  her,  and  that  she  was  a  drag  upon 
him.  when  suddenly  she  remembered  the  tholthan.  and  be- 
thought herself  for  the  fii-st  time  of  a  possible  contingency. 
Why  had  she  not  thought  of  it  before  ?  Why  had  he  never 
thought  of  it  ?  If  it  should  come  to  pass !  The  prospect  did 
not  appal  her;  it  did  not  overwhelm  her  with  confusion  or 
oppress  her  with  shame:  it  did  not  threaten  to  fall  like  a 
thunderbolt;  the  thought  of  it  came  down  like  an  angel's 
w^hisper. 

She  was  not  afraid.  It  was  only  an  idea,  only  a  possibil- 
ity, only  a  dream  of  consequences,  but  at  one  bound  it  brought 
her  so  much  nearer  to  Philip.  It  gave  her  a  right  to  him. 
How  dare  he  make  her  suffer  so  ?  She  would  not  permit  him 
to  leave  her.  He  was  her  husband,  and  he  must  cling  to  her, 
come  what  would.  Across  the  void  that  had  divided  them  a 
mysterious  power  drew  them  together.     She  was  he,  and  he 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  217 

was  she,  and  they  were  one,  for — who  knows  ? — who  could 
say  ? — perhaps  Nature  herself  had  willed  it. 

Thus  the  first  effect  of  the  new  thought  upon  Kate  was 
frenzied  exultation.  She  had  onh^  one  thing  to  do  now.  She 
had  only  to  go  to  Philip  as  Bathsheba  went  to  David.  True, 
she  could  not  say  what  Bathsheba  said.  She  had  no  certainty, 
but  her  case  was  no  less  strong.  *'  Have  you  never  thought 
of  what  may  possibly  occur  ?  "  This  is  what  she  would  say 
now  to  Philip.  And  Philip  would  say  to  her,  "Dearest,  I 
have  never  thought  of  that.  Where  was  my  head  that  I 
never  reflected  ?  "  Then,  in  spite  of  his  plans,  in  spite  of  his 
pledge  to  Pete,  in  spite  of  the  world,  in  spite  of  himself — yea, 
in  spite  of  his  own  soul  if  it  stood  between  them — he  would 
cling  to  her;  she  was  sure  of  it — she  could  swear  to  it^he 
could  not  resist. 

"He  will  believe  whatever  I  tell  him,"  she  thought,  and 
she  would  say,  "Come  to  me,  Philip;  I  am  frightened."  In 
the  torture  of  her  palpitating  heart  she  would  have  rejoiced 
at  that  moment  if  she  could  have  been  sure  that  she  was  in 
the  position  of  what  the  world  calls  a  shameful  woman. 
With  that  for  her  claim  she  could  see  herself  going  to  Philip 
and  telling  him,  her  head  on  his  breast,  whispering  sweetly 
the  great  secret — the  wondrous  news.  And  then  the  joy,  the 
rapture,  the  long  kiss  of  love !  "  Mine,  mine,  mine !  he  is  mine 
at  last!" 

That  could  not  be  quite  so;  she  was  not  so  happy  as 
Bathsheba ;  she  was  not  sure,  but  her  right  was  the  same  for 
all  that.     Oh,  it  was  joyful,  it  was  delicious ! 

The  little  cunning  arts  of  her  sex,  the  small  deceits  in 
which  she  liad  disguised  herself  fell  away  from  her  now.  She 
said  to  herself,  "  I  will  stop  the  nonsense  about  the  marriage 
with  Pete."  It  was  mean,  it  was  foolish,  it  was  miserable 
trifling,  it  was  wicked,  it  was  a  waste  of  life— above  all,  it  was 
doing  a  great,  great  wrong  to  her  love  of  Philip !  How  could 
she  ever  have  thought  of  it  ? 

Next  morning  she  was  up  and  was  dressing  when  Grannie 
came  into  the  room  with  a  cup  of  tea.  "  I  feel  so  much  bet- 
ter," she  said  "  that.1  think  I'll  go  to  Douglas  by  the  coach  to- 
day, mother." 

'•  Do,  bogh,"  said  Grannie  cheerfully,  "  and  Pete  shall  go 
with  you." 


218  THE  MANXMAN. 

"Oh,  no;  I  must  be  quite  alone,  mother." 

"  Aw,  aw  !  A  lil  errand,  maybe  I  Shopping  is  it  ?  Pres- 
ents, eh  ?  Take  your  tay,  then."  And  Grannie  rolled  the 
blind,  saying,  "  A  beautiful  morning  you'll  have  for  it,  too. 
I  can  see  the  spire  as  plain  as  plain."  Then,  turning  about, 
''  Did  you  hear  the  bells  this  morning,  Kitty  i  " 

'•  Why,  what  bells.  niamm\'  ?  "  said  Kate,  through  a  mouth- 
ful of  bread  and  butter. 

"  The  bells  for  Christian  Killip.  Her  old  sweetheart  took 
her  to  church  at  last.  He  wouldn't  get  rest  at  your  father  till 
he  did — and  her  baby  two  years  for  Ohristmas.  But  what 
d'ye  think,  now  ?  Robbie  left  her  at  the  church  door,  and 
he's  off  by  the  Ramsey  packet  for  England.  Aw,  dear,  he 
did,  though.  '  You  can  make  me  marry  her,'  said  he,  '  but  you 
can't  make  me  live  with  her,'  he  said,  and  he  was  away  down 
the  road  like  the  dust.'' 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  go  to  Douglas  to-day.  mother,"  said  Kate 
in  a  broken  voice.     '*  I'm  not  so  very  well,  after  all." 

''  Aw.  the  bogh  I ''  said  Grannie.  "*  Making  too  sm-e  of  her- 
self, was  she  ?  It's  the  way  with  them  all  when  they're 
mending." 

With  cheerful  protestations  Grannie  helped  her  back  to 
bed.  and  then  went  off  with  an  anxious  face  to  tell  Caesar  that 
she  was  more  ill  than  ever. 

She  was  ill  indeed;  but  her  worst  illness  was  of  the  heart. 
"If  I  go  to  him  and  tell  him."  she  thought,  ''he  will  marry 
me— yes.  No  fear  that  he  will  leave  me  at  the  church  door  or 
elsewhere.  He  will  stay  with  me.  We  will  be  man  and  wife 
to  the  last.  The  world  will  know  nothing.  But  /  will  know. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  will  remember  that  he  only  sacrificed  him- 
self to  repair  a  fault.     That  shall  never  be  — never,  never!  " 

Caesar  came  up  in  great  alarm.  He  seemed  to  be  living  in 
hourly  dread  that  some  obstacle  would  arise  at  the  last  mo- 
ment to  stop  the  marriage.  "Chut,  woman  I  "  he  said  play- 
fully. "  Have  a  good  heart,  Kitty.  The  sun's  not  going  down 
on  you  yet  at  all." 

That  night  there  were  loud  voices  from  the  bar-room. 
The  talk  was  of  the  marriage  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
morning,  and  of  its  strange  and  painful  sequel.  John  the 
Clerk  was  saying,  "  But  you'd  be  hearing  of  the  by-child,  it's 
like?" 


i 


MAN   AND  WOMAN.  219 

"  Never  a  word,"  said  somebody. 

''  Not  heard  of  it,  though  ?  Fetching-  the  cliild  to  the  wed- 
ding to  have  the  bad  name  taken  oflP  it — no  ?  They  were  stand- 
ing the  lil  bogh— it's  only  three— two  is  it,  Grannie,  only  two  ? 
— well,  they  were  standing  the  lil  thing  under  its  mother's 
perricut  while  the  sarvice  was  saying." 

''  You  don't  say  !  " 

"  Aw,  truth  enough,  sir  !  It's  the  ould  Manx  way  of  legiti- 
mating. The  pai"Sons  are  knowing  nothing  of  it,  but  I've  seen 
it  times." 

''John's  right,"  said  Mr.  Jelly  ;  "and  I  can  tell  you  more 
— it  was  just  that  the  man  went  to  church  for." 

"Wouldn't  trust,"  said  John  the  Clerk.  "The  woman 
wasn't  getting  much  of  a  husband  out  of  it  anyway." 

"No,"  said  Pete— he  had  not  spoken  before — "  but  the  child 
w^as  getting  the  name  of  its  father,  though." 

"  That's  not  mountains  of  thick  porridge,  sir,"  said  some- 
body. "  Robbie's  gone.  What's  the  good  of  a  father  if  he's 
doing  nothing  to  bring  you  up  ?  " 

"  Ask  your  son  if  you've  got  any  of  the  sort,"  said  Pete  ; 
"  some  of  you  have.  Ask  me.  I  know  middling  well  what  it 
is  to  go  through  the  world  without  a  father's  name  to  ray 
back.  If  your  lad  is  like  mj^self,  he's  knowing  it  early  and 
he's  knowing  it  late.  He's  knowing  it  when  he's  saying  his 
bits  of  praj^ers  atop  of  the  bed  in  the  gable  loft  :  '  God  bless 
mother — and  grandmother,'  maybe — there's  never  no  'father' 
in  his  little  texes.  And  he's  knowing  it  when  he's  growing 
up  to  a  lump  of  a  lad  and  going  for  a  trade,  and  the  beast  of 
life  is  getting  the  grip  of  him.  Ten  to  one  he  comes  to  be  a 
waistrel  then,  and,  if  it's  a  girl  instead,  a  hundred  to  nothing 
she  tui-ns  out  a — well,  worse.  Only  a  notion,  is  it  ?  Just  a 
parzon's  lie,  eh  ?  Having  your  father's  name  is  nothing — no  ? 
That's  what  the  man  says.  But  ask  the  child,  and  shut  j^our 
mouth  for  a  fool." 

There  was  a  hush  and  a  hum  after  that,  and  Kate,  who  liad 
reached  from  the  bed  to  open  the  door,  clutched  it  w^ith  a 
feverish  grasp. 

"But  Christian  Killip  is  nothing  but  a  trollop,  anyway, 
sir,"  said  Caesar. 

"Every  cat  is  black  in  the  night,  father  —  the  girl's  in 
trouble,"  said  Pete.  "No,  no  !  If  I'd  done  wrong  by  a 
15 


220  THE  MANXMAN. 

woman,  and  she  was  having-  a  child  by  me,  I'd  marry  her  if 
she'd  take  me,  though  I'd  come  to  hate  her  like  sin  itself." 

Grannie  in  the  kitclien  was  wiping-  her  eyes  at  these  brave 
words,  but  Kate  in  the  bedroom  was  tossing  in  a  delirium  of 
wrath.     ''  Never,  never,  never  !  "  she  thought. 

Oh,  yes,  Philip  w^ould  marry  her  if  she  imposed  herself 
upon  him,  if  she  hinted  at  a  possible  contingency.  He,  too, 
was  a  brave  man  ;  he  also  had  a  lofty  soul — he  would  not 
shrink.     But  no,  not  for  the  wealth  of  w^orlds. 

Philip  loved  her,  and  his  love  alone  should  bring"  him  to 
her  side.  No  other  compulsion  should  be  put  upon  him, 
neither  the  thought  of  her  possible  future  position,  nor  of  the 
consequences  to  another.  It  was  the  only  justice,  the  only 
safety,  the  only  happiness  now  or  in  the  time  to  come. 

"  He  shall  marry  me  for  my  sake,"  she  thought,  "  for  my 
own  sake— my  own  sake  only." 

Thus  in  the  wild  disorder  of  her  soul — the  tempest  of  con- 
flicting passions— her  pride  barred  up  the  one  great  way. 


XVII. 

There  was  no  help  for  it  after  all — she  must  go  on  as  she  had 
begun,  with  the  old  scheme,  the  old  chance,  the  old  gambling 
hazard.  Heart-sick  and  ashamed,  waiting  for  Philip,  and 
listening  to  every  step,  she  kept  her  room  two  days  longer. 
Then  Caesar  came  and  rallied  her. 

"  Gough  bless  me,  but  nobody  will  credit  it,"  he  said.  "  The 
marriage  for  Monday,  and  the  bride  in  bed  a  Wednesday. 
People  will  say  it  isn't  coming  off  at  all." 

This  alarmed  her.  It  partly  explained  why  Philip  did  not 
come.  If  he  thought  there  was  no  danger  of  the  marriage,  he 
would  be  in  no  hurry  to  intervene.  Next  day  (Thursday)  she 
struggled  up  and  dressed  in  a  light  wrapper,  feeling  weak  and 
nervous,  and  looking  pale  and  white  like  apple-blossom  nipped 
by  frost.  Pete  would  have  carried  her  downstairs,  but  she 
would  not  have  it.  They  established  her  among  a  pile  of 
cushions  before  a  fire  in  the  parlour,  with  its  bowd  of  sea-birds' 
eggs  that  had  the  faint,  unfamiliar  smell— its  tables  of  old 
china  that  shook  and  rang  slightly  with  every  step  and  sound. 
The  kitchen  was  covered  with  the  litter  of  dressmakers  pre- 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  221 

paring  for  tlie  weddiiifr.  There  were  bodices  to  try  on,  and  de- 
cisions to  give  on  points  of  style.  Kate  agi'eed  to  everything. 
In  a  weak  and  toneless  voice  she  kept  on  telling  them  to  do  as 
they  thought  best.  Only  when  she  heard  that  Pete  was  to 
pay  did  she  assert  her  will,  and  that  was  to  limit  the  dresses 
to  one. 

"  Sakes  alive  now,  Kirry,"  cried  Nancy,  "  that's  what  I  call 
ruining  a  good  husband — the  man  was  willing  to  buy  frocks 
for  a  boarding-school.'" 

Pete  came,  sat  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  and  told  stories.  They 
were  funny  stories  of  his  life  abroad,  and  now  and  again  there 
came  bursts  of  laughter  from  the  kitchen,  where  they  were 
straining  their  necks  to  catch  his  words  through  the  doors, 
which  they  kept  ajar.  But  Kate  hardly  listened.  She  showed 
signs  of  impatience  sometimes,  and  made  quick  glances  around 
w4ien  the  door  opened,  as  if  expecting  somebody.  On  recov- 
ering herself  at  these  moments,  she  found  Pete  looking  up  at 
her  with  the  big,  serious,  moist  eyes  of  a  dog. 

He  began  to  tell  of  the  liou.se  he  had  taken,  to  excuse  him- 
self for  not  consulting  her,  and  to  describe  the  progress  of  the 
furnishing. 

"  I've  put  it  all  in  the  hands  of  Cannell  &  Quayle,  Kitty," 
he  said,  "and  they're  doing  it  beautiful.  Marble  slabs,  bless 
you,  like  a  butcher's  counter  ;  carpets  as  soft  as  daisies,  and 
looking-glasses  as  tall  as  a  man." 

Kate  had  not  heard  him.  She  was  trying  to  i*emember  all 
she  knew  of  the  courts  of  the  island — where  they  were  held, 
and  on  what  days. 

"  Have  you  seen  Philip  lately  ?  "  she  asked. 

'"Not  since  Monday,"  said  Pete.  "  He's  in  Dougla.s.  work- 
ing like  mad  to  be  here  on  Monday,  God  bless  him  I " 

"What  did  he  say  when  he  heard  we  had  changed  the 
day  ? " 

"Wanted  to  get  out  of  it  first.  '  Fm  sailing  on  Tuesday,' 
said  he." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  I  proposed  it  ? " 

"  Trust  me  for  not  forgetting  that  at  all.  '  Aw,  then,'  says 
he,  'there's  no  choice  left,'  he  says." 

Kate's  pale  face  became  paler,  the  dark  circles  about  her 
eyes  grew  yet  more  dark.  "  I  think  I'll  go  back  to  bed, 
mother,"  she  said  in  the  same  toneless  voice. 


222  THE  MANXMAN. 

Pete  helped  her  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  big,  moist 
eyes  were  looking  at  her  constantly.  She  found  it  hai*d  to 
keep  an  equal  countenance. 

"  But  will  you  be  fit  for  it,  darling  ? "  said  Pete. 

"  Why,  of  course  she'll  be  fit,  sir,"  said  Caesar,  "  What 
girl  is  ever  more  than  middling  the  week  before  she's  mar- 
ried?" 

Next  day  she  persuaded  her  father  to  take  her  to  Douglas. 
She  had  little  errands  there  that  could  not  be  done  in  Ramsey. 
The  morning  was  fine  but  cold.  Pete  helped  her  up  in  the 
gig,  and  they  drove  away.  If  only  she  could  see  Philip,  if 
only  Philip  could  see  her,  he  would  know  by  the  look  of  her 
face  that  the  marriage  was  not  of  her  making — that  compul- 
sion of  some  sort  was  being  put  on  her.  She  spent  four  houi*s 
going  from  shop  to  shop,  lingering  in  the  streets,  but  seeing 
nothing  of  Philip.  Her  step  was  slow  and  weary,  her  features 
were  pinched  and  starved,  but  Caesar  could  scarcely  get  her 
out  of  the  town.  At  length  the  daylight  began  to  fail,  and 
then  she  yielded  to  his  importunities. 

"  How  short  the  days  are  now,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  as 
they  ran  into  the  country. 

"  Yes,  they  are  a  cock's  stride  shorter  in  September,"  said 
Caesar  ;  "  but  when  a  woman  once  gets  shopping,  Midsummer 
day  itself  won't  do — she's  wanting  the  land  of  the  midnight 
sun." 

Pete  lifted  her  out  of  the  gig  in  darkness  at  the  door  of 
the  "  Fairy,"  and,  his  great  arms  being  about  her,  he  carried 
her  into  the  house  and  set  her  dow^n  in  the  fire-seat.  She 
would  have  struggled  to  her  feet  if  she  had  been  able;  she  felt 
something  like  repulsion  at  his  touch  ;  but  he  looked  at  her 
with  the  mute  eloquence  of  love,  and  she  was  ashamed. 

The  house  w^as  full  of  gossips  that  night.  They  talked  of 
the  marriage  customs  of  old  times.  One  described  the  ''  pay- 
weddings,"  where  the  hat  went  round,  and  every  guest  gave 
something  towards  the  cost  of  the  breakfast  and  the  expenses 
of  beginning  housekeeping — rude  forefather  of  the  practice  of 
the  modern  wedding  present.  Another  pictured  the  irregular 
marriages  made  in  public-houses  in  the  days  when  the  island 
had  three  breweries  and  thirty  drinking  shops  to  eyery  thou- 
sand of  its  inhabitants.  The  publican  laid  two  sticks  cross- 
wise on  the  floor,  and  said  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom — 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  223 

'*  Hop  over  the  sticks  and  lie  crossed  on  the  floor, 
And  you're  man  and  wife  for  nevermore." 

There  was  some  laughter  at  this,  but  Kate  sat  in  the  fire- 
seat  and  sipped  her  tea  in  silence,  and  Pete  said  quietly, 
"  Nothing  to  laugh  at,  though.  I  remember  a  girl  over  Foxal 
way  that  was  married  to  a  man  like  that,  and  then  he  went  off 
to  Kinsale,  and  got  kept  for  the  herring  riots — d'ye  mind 
them  ?  She  was  a  strapping  girl,  though,  and  when  the  man 
was  gone  the  boys  came  bothering  her,  first  one  and  then 
another,  and  good  ones  among  them  too.  And  honour  bright 
for  all,  they  v^ei-e  for  taking  her  to  the  parzon  about  right. 
But  no  !  Did  they  think  she  was  for  committing  beggamy  ? 
She  was  married  to  one  man,  and  wasn't  that  enough  for  a 
dacent  girl  anyw^ay.  And  so  she  wouldn't  and  she  didn't,  and 
last  of  all  her  own  boy  came  back,  and  they  lived  together 
man  and  wife,  and  what  for  shouldn't  they  ? " 

This  question  from  the  man  who  was  on  the  point  of  going 
to  church  v.^as  received  with  shouts  of  laughter,  through  which 
the  voice  of  Grannie  rose  in  affectionate  remonstrance,  saying, 
"Aw,  Pete,  it's  ter'ble  to  hear  you,  bogh." 

"What's  there  ter'ble  about  that.  Grannie?"  said  Pete. 
"  Isn't  it  the  Almighty  and  not  the  parzon  that  makes  the 
marriage  ? " 

'*  Aw,  boy  veen,  boy  veen,"  cried  Grannie,  "  you  was  used 
to  be  a  good  man,  but  you  have  fell  off  very  bad." 

Kate  was  in  a  fever  of  eagerness.  She  wanted  to  open  her 
heart  to  Pete,  to  beg  him  to  spare  her,  to  tell  him  that  it  was 
impossible  that  they  should  ever  marry.  Pete  would  see  that 
Philip  was  her  husband  by  every  true  law,  human  and  divine. 
In  this  mood  she  lived  through  much  of  the  following  day, 
Friday,  tossing  and  turning  in  bed,  for  the  exhaustion  of  the 
day  in  Douglas  had  confined  her  to  her  room  again. 

In  the  evening  she  came  downstairs,  and  was  established 
in  the  fire-seat  as  before.  There  were  four  or  five  old  women 
in  the  kitchen  spinning  yarn  for  a  set  of  blankets  which 
Grannie  intended  for  a  wedding  present.  When  the  day's 
work  was  nearly  done,  two  or  three  old  men,  the  old  husbands 
of  the  old  women,  came  to  carry  their  wheels  home  again. 
Then,  as  the  wheels  whirred  for  the  last  of  the  twist,  Pete  set 
the  old  crones  to  tell  stories  of  old  times. 

"  Tell  us  of  the  days  when  you  were  young,  Anne,"  said 


224  THE  MANXMAN. 

Pete  to  an  ancient  dame  of  eighty.  Her  husband  of  eighty- 
four  sat  sucking  his  pipe  by  her  side. 

*'  Well,"  said  old  Anne,  stretching  her  arms  to  the  yarn,  "  I 
was  as  near  going  foreign,  same  as  yourself,  sir,  just  as  near, 
now,  as  makes  no  matter.  It  was  the  very  day  I  mai'ried  this 
man,  and  his  brother  was  making  a  start  for  Austrillya. 
Jemmy  was  my  ould  sweetheart,  only  I  had  given  him  up 
because  he  was  always  stealing  my  pocket-handkerchei's.  But 
he  came  that  morning  and  tapped  at  my  window,  and  '  Will 
you  come,  Anne  ? '  says  he,  and  I  whipped  on  my  perricut 
and  stole  out  and  down  to  the  quay  with  him.  But  my  heart 
was  losing  me  when  I  saw  the  white  horses  on  the  water,  and 
home  I  came  and  went  to  church  with  this  one  instead.'' 

While  old  Anne  told  her  story  her  old  husband  opened  his 
mouth  wider  and  wider,  until  the  pipe-shank  dropped  out  of 
his  toothless  gums  on  to  his  waistcoat.  Then  he  stretched  his 
left  arm  and  brought  down  his  clenched  hand  with  a  bang  on 
to  her  shoulder. 

"  And  have  you  been  living  with  me  better  than  sixty 
years,"  said  he,  "  and  never  telling  me  that  before  ?" 

Pete  tried  to  pacify  his  ancient  jealousy,  but  it  was  not  to 
be  appeased,  and  he  shouldered  the  wheel  and  hobbled  off, 
saying,  "  And  I  sent  out  two  pound  five  to  put  a  stone  on  the 
man's  grave  I " 

There  was  loud  laughter  when  the  old  couple  were  gone, 
but  Pete  said,  nevertheless,  ''  A  sacret's  a  sacret,  though,  and 
the  ould  lady  bad  no  right  to  tell  it.  It  was  the  dead  man's 
sacret  too,  and  she's  fouled  the  ould  man's  memory.  If  a  per- 
son's done  wrong,  the  best  thing  he  can  do  next  is  to  say 
darned  little  about  it." 

Kate  rose  and  went  off  to  bed.  Another  door  had  been 
barred  to  her,  and  she  felt  sick  and  faint. 


XVIII. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  Kate  remembered  that  Philip 
came  to  Ballure  on  Saturdays.  She  felt  sure  that  he  would 
come  to  Sulby  also.  Let  him  only  set  eyes  on  her,  and  he 
would  divine  the  trouble  that  had  taken  the  colour  out  of  her 
cheeks.     Then  he  would  speak  to  Pete  and  to  her  father  ;  he 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  i>o5 

would  deliver  her  ;  he  would  take  everything  upon  himself. 
Thus  all  day  long,  like  a  white-eyed  gambler  who  has  staked 
his  last,  she  waited  and  listened  and  watched.  At  breakfast 
she  said  to  herself,  '"  He  will  come  this  morning."  At  dinner, 
"He  will  come  this  evening.''  At  supper,  '*  He  will  come  to- 
night." 

But  Philip  did  not  come,  and  she  grew  hysterical  as  well  as 
restless.  She  watched  the  clock  ;  the  minutes  passed  with 
feet  of  lead,  but  the  hours  w^ith  wrings  of  fire.  She  was  now 
like  a  criminal  looking  for  a  reprieve.  Every  time  the  clock 
warned  to  strike,  she  felt  one  hour  nearer  her  doom. 

The  strain  was  wearing  her  out.  She  reproached  Philip 
for  leaving  her  to  this  cruel  uncertainty,  and  she  suffered  the 
pangs  of  one  who  tries  at  the  same  time  to  love  and  to  hate. 
Then  she  reproached  herself  with  altering  the  date  of  the 
marriage,  and  excused  Philip  on  the  grounds  of  her  haste. 
She  felt  like  a  witch  who  was  burning  by  her  own  spell. 
Hope  was  failing  her,  and  Will  was  breaking  down  as  well. 
Nevertheless,  she  determined  that  the  wedding  should  be  post- 
poned. 

That  was  on  Saturday  night.  On  Sunday  morning  she 
had  gone  one  step  farther.  The  last  pitiful  shred  of  expecta- 
tion that  Philip  would  intervene  seemed  then  to  be  lost,  and 
she  had  resolved  that,  come  what  would,  she  should  not  marry 
at  all.  No  need  to  appeal  to  Pete  ;  no  necessity  to  betray  the 
secret  of  Philip.  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  say  siie  would  not 
go  on  with  the  w^edding,  and  no  power  on  eai'th  should  com- 
pel her. 

With  this  determination,  and  a  feeling  of  immense  relief, 
she  went  downstairs.  Caesar  w^as  coming  in  from  the  preach- 
ing-room, and  Pete  from  the  new  house  at  Ramsey.  They  sat 
down  to  dinner.  After  dinner  she  would  speak  out.  Caesar 
sharpened  the  carving-knife  on  the  steel,  and  said,  "We've 
taken  the  girl  Christian  Killip  back  to  communion  to-day." 

"Poor  thing,"  said  Grannie,  "  pity  she  was  ever  put  out  of 
it,  though." 

"  Maybe  so,— maybe  no,"  said  Caesar.  "  Necessary  any- 
way; one  scabby  sheep  infects  the  flock." 

"  And  has  marriage  daubed  grace  on  the  poor  sheep's  sore 
then,  Caesar  ? "  said  Pete. 

"  She's  Mistress  Robbie  Teare  and  a  dacent  woman,  sir," 


22(3  THE  MANXMAN. 

said  Caesar,  digging  into  the  beef.  "  and  that's  all  the  truck  a 
Christian  church  has  got  with  it." 

Kate  did  not  eat  her  dinner  that  day.  and  neither  did  she 
speak  out  as  she  had  intended.  A  supei-natural  power  seemed 
to  have  come  down  at  the  last  moment  and  barred  up  the  one 
remaining  pathway  of  escape.  She  was  in  the  track  of  the 
storm.  The  tempest  was  ready  to  fall  on  her.  Where  could 
she  fly  for  shelter  ? 

What  her  father  had  said  of  the  girl  had  revealed  her  life 
to  her  in  the  light  of  her  relation  to  Philip.  The  thought  of 
the  possible  contingency  which  she  had  foreseen  with  so  much 
joy,  as  so  much  power,  had  awakened  the  consciousness  of  her 
moral  position.  She  was  a  fallen  woman  I  What  else  was 
she  ?  And  if  the  contingencj'  befell,  what  would  become  of 
her  ?  In  the  intensity  of  her  father's  pietistic  views  the  very 
shadow  of  shame  would  overwhelm  his  household,  overthrow 
his  sect,  and  uproot  his  religious  pretensions.  Kate  trembled 
at  the  possibility  of  such  a  disaster  coming  through  her.  She 
saw  herself  being  driven  from  house  and  home.  Where  could 
she  fly  ?  And  though  she  fled  away,  would  she  not  still  be  the 
cause  of  sorrow  and  disgrace  to  all  w^hom  she  left  behind — her 
mother,  her  father,  Pete,  everybody  ? 

If  she  could  only  tear  out  the  past,  at  least  she  could  stop 
this  marriage.  Or  if  she  had  been  a  man  she  could  stop  it,  for 
a  man  may  sin  and  still  look  to  the  future  with  a  firm  face. 
But  she  was  a  woman,  and  a  woman's  acts  may  be  her  own, 
but  their  consequences  are  beyond  her.  Oh,  the  misery  of 
being  a  woman  !  She  asked  herself  what  she  could  do,  and 
there  was  no  answer.  She  could  not  break  the  web  of  circum- 
stances. Her  situation  might  be  false,  it  might  be  dishonour- 
able, but  there  was  no  escape  from  it.  There  was  no  gleam  of 
hope  anywhere. 

Late  that  night — Sunday  night— they  were  sitting  together 
in  the  kitchen,  Kate  in  the  fire-seat  as  usual,  Pete  on  the  stool 
by  the  turf  closet,  smoking  up  the  chimney,  Caesar  reading 
aloud,  Grannie  listening,  and  Nancy  cooking  the  su{)per, 
when  the  porch  door  burst  open  and  somebody  entered. 
Kate  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  startled  cry  of  joy,  looked  round 
eagerly,  and  then  sat  down  again  covered  with  confusion. 

It  was  the  girl  Christian  Killip.  a  pale,  weak,  frightened 
creature,  with  the  mouth  and  e^^es  of  a  hare. 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  227 

"  Is  Mr.  Quilliam  liore  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Here's  the  man  himself,  Christian,"  said  Grannie.  "  What 
do  you  want  with  him  '{  " 

"  Oil,  God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  the  girl  to  Pete,  "  God  bless 
you  for  ever  and  ever." 

Then  turning  back  to  Grannie,  she  explained  in  w^oman's 
fashion,  with  many  woi-ds,  that  somebody  unknown  had  sent 
her  twenty  pounds,  for  the  child,  by  post,  the  day  before,  and 
she  had  only  now  guessed  who  it  must  be  when  John  the 
Clerk  had  told  her  what  Pete  had  said  a  week  before. 

Pete  grunted  and  glimed,  smoked  up  the  chimney,  and 
said,  ''  That'll  do,  ma  am,  that'll  do.  Don't  believe  all  you 
hear.     John  says  more  than  his  Amens,  anyway." 

''  I'm  axing  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  the  girl  to  Kate,  "  but 
I  couldn't  help  coming — I  couldn't  really — no,  I  couldn't," 
and  then  she  began  to  cry. 

'"  Where's  that  child  ?  '*  said  Pete,  heaving  up  to  his  feet  with 
a  ferocious  look.  "What  !  you  mane  to  say  you've  left  the  HI 
thing  alone,  asleep  ?  Go  back  to  it  then  immajent.  Good 
night  ! '' 

*'Good  night,  sir,  and  God  bless  you,  and  when  you're 
mai-ried  to-morrow.  God  bless  your  wife  as  well  !  " 

"That'll  do — that'll  do,"  said  Pete,  backing  her  to  the 
porch. 

''You  dcsarve  a  good  v/oman,  sir,  and  may  the  Lord  be 
good  to  you  both." 

"  Tut !  tut  !  "  said  Pete,  and  he  tut-tutted  her  out  of  the 
house. 

She  smoothed  her  baby's  hair  more  tenderly  than  ever 
that  night,  and  kissed  it  again  and  again. 

Kate  could  scarcely  breathe,  she  could  barely  see.  Her 
pride  and  her  will  had  broken  down  utteily.  This  great- 
hearted man  loved  her.  He  would  lay  down  his  life  if  need 
be  to  save  her.  To  morrow  he  would  marry  her.  Here,  .then, 
was  her  rock  of  refuge — this  strong  man  by  her  side. 

She  could  struggle  against  fate  no  longer.  It's  invisible 
hand  was  pushing  her  on.  It's  blind  power  was  dragging 
her.  If  Philip  would  not  come  to  claim  her  she  must  marry 
Pete. 

And  Pete  ?  She  meant  no  harm  to  Pete.  She  had  not 
yet  thought  of  things  from  Pete's  point  of  view.     He  was  like 


228  THE  MANXxMAN. 

the  camel-bag  in  the  desert  to  the  terrified  wayfarer  when  the 
sand-cloud  breaks  over  him.  He  flies  to  it.  It  sheltei*s  him. 
But  what  of  the  camel  itself,  with  its  head  in  the  storm  ? 
Until  the  storm  is  over  he  does  not  think  of  that. 


XIX. 

Meantime  Philip  himself  was  in  the  throes  of  his  own 
agony.  At  the  news  of  Kate's  illness  he  Avas  overwhelmed 
with  remorse,  and  when  he  Id  quired  if  she  had  been  delirious, 
he  was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  meanness  never  felt  before. 
At  his  meeting  with  Pete  he  realised  for  the  first  time  to  what 
depths  his  duplicitj^  had  degraded  him.  He  had  prided  him- 
self on  being  a  man  of  honour,  and  he  was  suddenly-  thrown 
out  of  the  paths  in  which  he  could  walk  honourably. 

When  the  first  shock  of  Kate's  disaster  was  over,  he  re- 
membered the  interview  with  the  Governor.  The  Deemster- 
ship  burnt  in  his  mind  with  a  growing  fever  of  desire,  but  he 
did  not  apply  for  it.  He  did  not  even  mention  it  to  Auntie 
Nan.  She  heard  of  his  prospects  from  Peter  Christian  Balla- 
whaine,  who  first  set  foot  in  her  house  on  this  errand  of  con- 
gratulation. The  sweet  old  soul  was  wildly  excited.  All  the 
hopes  of  her  life  Avere  about  to  be  realised,  the  visions  and  the 
dreams  were  coming  true.  Philip  was  going  to  regain  what 
his  father  had  lost.  Had  he  made  his  application  yet  ?  No  ? 
He  would,  though  ;  it  was  his  duty. 

But  Philip  could  not  apply  for  the  Deemstership.  To  sit 
down  in  cold  blood  and  write  to  the  Home  Secretary  while 
Kate  was  lying  sick  in  bed  would  be  too  much  like  asking  the 
devil's  wages  for  sacrificing  her.  Then  came  Pete  with  his 
talk  of  the  wedding.  That  did  not  really  alarm  him.  It  was 
only  the  last  revolution  of  the  old  wheel  that  had  been  set 
spinning  before  Pete  went  away.  Kate  would  not  consent. 
They  had  taken  her  consent  for  granted.  He  felt  easy,  calm, 
and  secure. 

Next  came  his  old  master,  the  college  friend  of  his  father, 
now  promoted  to  the  position  of  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  He  was 
proud  of  his  pupil,  and  had  learnt  that  Philip  was  first  favour- 
ite with  the  Governor. 

"  I  alwavs  knew  it,"  he  said.     "  I  did,  ma'am,  I  did.     The 


MAN  AND  WOMAN.  229 

first  time  I  set  eyes  on  him,  thinks  I,  '  Here  comes  the  makings 

of  the  best  lawyer  in  the  island,'  and  by he's  not  going  to 

disappoint  me  either." 

The  good  fellow  was  a  noisy,  hearty,  robustious  creature,  a 
bachelor,  and  when  talking  of  the  late  Deemster,  he  said 
women  were  usually  the  chief  obstacles  in  a  man's  career. 
Then  he  begged  Auntie  Nan's  pardon,  but  the  old  lady  showed 
no  anger.  She  agreed  that  it  had  been  so  in  some  cases. 
Young  men  should  be  careful  what  stumbling-blocks  they  set 
up  in  the  way  of  their  own  progress. 

Philip  listened  in  silence,  and  was  conscious,  through  all 
the  unselfish  counselling,  of  a  certain  cynical  bitterness.  Still 
he  did  not  make  application  for  the  Deemstership.  Then  came 
Caesar's  letter  announcing  the  marriage,  and  even  fixing  a  date 
for  it.  This  threw  him  into  a  fit  of  towering  indignation.  He 
was  certain  of  undue  pressure.  They  were  forcing  the  girl. 
It  was  his  duty  to  stop  the  marriage.  But  how  ?  There  was 
one  clear  course,  but  that  course  he  could  not  take.  He  could 
not  go  back  on  his  settled  determination  that  he  must  not, 
should  not  marry  the  girl  himself.  Onlj'  one  thing  was  left — 
to  rely  on  Kate.  She  would  never  consent.  Not  being  able 
to  marry  him,  she  would  marry  no  man.  She  would  do  as  he 
was  doing — she  would  suffer  and  stand  alone. 

By  this  time  Philip's  love,  which,  in  spite  of  himself,  had 
grown  cool  since  the  Melliah,  and  in  his  fierce  battle  with  his 
worldly  aims,  suddenly  awakened  to  fresh  violence  at  the  ap- 
proach of  another  man.  But  his  ambition  fought  w4th  his 
love,  and  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  it  made  any  difference 
after  all  in  this  matter  of  Kate  w^hether  he  took  the  Deemster- 
ship or  left  it.  Kate  Avas  recovering;  he  had  nothing  to  re- 
proach himself  with,  and  it  would  be  ioWj  to  sacrifice  the  am- 
bition of  a  lifetime  to  the  love  of  a  woman  who  could  never 
be  his,  a  woman  he  could  never  marry.  At  that  he  wrote  his 
letter  to  the  Home  Secretary.  It  was  a  brilliant  letter  of  its 
kind,  simple,  natural,  strong,  and  judicious.  He  had  a  calm 
assurance  that  nothing  so  good  would  leave  the  island,  yet  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  post  it.  Some  quiverings  of  the  old 
tenderness  came  back  as  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  some  visions 
of  Kate,  with  her  twitching  lips,  her  passionate  eyes,  some 
whisperings  of  their  smothered  love. 

Then  came  Pete  again  with  the  decisive  blow.     Kate  had 


230  THE  MANXMAN. 

consented.  There  was  no  longer  any  room  for  doubt.  His 
former  indignation  seemed  almost  comic,  his  confidence  ab- 
surd. Kate  was  willing  to  marry  Pete,  and  after  all,  wbat 
right  had  he  to  blame  her  ?  What  right  had  he  to  stop  the 
marriage  ?  He  had  wronged  the  girl  enough  already.  A  good 
man  came  and  otf'ered  her  his  love.  She  was  going  to  take  it. 
How  should  he  dare  to  stop  her  from  marrying  another,  being 
unable  to  marry  her  himself  ? 

That  night  he  posted  his  letter  to  the  Home  Secretary,  and 
calmed  the  gnawings  of  his  love  with  dreams  of  ambition.  He 
would  regain  the  place  of  his  father ;  he  would  revive  the  tra- 
ditions of  his  grandfather;  the  Christians  should  resume  their 
ancient  standing  in  the  Isle  of  Man ;  the  last  of  their  race 
should  be  a  strong  man  and  a  just  one.  No,  he  would  never 
marry ;  he  would  live  alone,  a  quiet  life,  a  peaceful  one,  slightly 
tinged  with  melancholy,  yet  not  altogether  unhappy,  not  with- 
out cheer. 

Under  all  other  emotions,  strengthening  and  supporting 
him,  was  a  secret  bitterness  towards  Kate — a  certain  contempt 
of  her  fickleness,  her  lightness,  her  shallow  love,  her  readiness 
to  be  off  with  the  old  love  and  on  with  the  new.  There  was  a 
sort  of  pride  in  his  own  higher  type  of  devotion,  his  sterner 
passion.  Pete  invited  him  to  the  wedding,  but  he  would  not 
go,  he  would  invent  some  excuse. 

Then  came  the  change  of  the  day  to  suit  his  supposed  con- 
venience, and  also  Kate's  own  invitation.  Very  well,  be  it  so. 
Kate  was  defj^ing  him.  Her  invitation  was  a  challenge.  He 
would  take  it;  he  would  go  to  the  wedding.  And  if  their 
eyes  should  meet,  he  knew  whose  eyes  must  fall. 


XX. 

Early  next  day  the  sleeping  morning  was  awakened  by 
the  sound  of  a  horn.  It  began  somewhere  in  the  village,  wan- 
dered down  the  glen,  crossed  the  bridge,  plodded  over  the 
fields,  and  finally  coiled  round  the  house  of  the  bride  in  thick- 
ening groans  of  discord.  This  restless  spirit  in  the  grey  light 
was  meant  as  herald  of  the  approaching  wedding.  It  came 
from  the  husky  lungs  of  Mr.  Jonaique  Jelly. 

Before  daylight  "The  Manx   Fairy"   was  already   astir. 


MAN  AND   WOMAN.  231 

Somewhere  in  the  early  reaches  of  the  dawn  the  house  had  its 
last  dusting  down  at  the  hands  of  Nancy  Joe.  Then  Grannie 
finished,  on  hearth  and  gi'iddle,  the  baking  of  her  cakes. 
After  that,  some  of  the  neighbours  came  and  carried  off  to 
their  own  fires  the  beef,  mutton,  chickens,  and  ducks  intended 
for  the  day's  dinner.  It  Avas  woman's  work  that  was  to  the 
fore,  and  all  idle  men  were  hustled  out  of  the  way. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  breakfast  was  swallowed  standing. 
Then  everybody  began  to  think  of  dressing.  In  this  matter 
the  men  had  to  be  finished  off  before  the  women  could  begin. 
Already  they  were  heard  bellowing  for  help  from  unseen  re- 
gions upstairs.  Grannie  took  Caesar  in  hand.  Pete  was  in 
charge  of  Nancy  Joe. 

It  was  found  at  the  last  moment  that  Pete  had  forgotten  to 
provide  himself  with  a  white  shirt.  He  had  nothing  to  be 
married  in  except  the  flannel  one  in  which  he  came  home 
from  Africa.  This  would  never  do.  It  wasn't  proper,  it 
wasn't  respectable.  There  was  no  choice  but  to  boi'row  a  shirt 
of  Cffisar's.  Caesar's  shirt  was  of  ancient  pattern,  and  Pete 
was  shy  of  taking  it.  ''  Take  it,  or  you'll  have  none,"  said 
Nancy,  and  she  pushed  him  back  into  his  room.  When  he 
emerged  from  it  he  walked  with  a  stiff  neck  down  the  stairs 
in  a  collar  that  reached  to  his  ears  at  either  side,  and  stood  out 
at  his  cheeks  like  the  wings  of  a  white  bat,  with  two  long 
sharp  points  on  the  level  of  his  eyes,  which  he  seemed  to  be 
watching  warily  to  avoid  the  stab  of  their  ironed  starch.  At 
the  same  moment  Caesar  appeared  in  duck  trousers,  a  flow- 
ered waistcoat,  a  swallow-tail  coat,  and  a  tall  hat  of  rough 
black  beaver. 

The  kitchen  was  full  of  men  and  women  by  this  time,  and 
groups  of  young  fellows  were  gathered  on  the  road  outside, 
some  with  horses,  saddled  and  bridled  for  the  bride's  race 
home  after  the  ceremony  ;  others  with  guns  ready  loaded  for 
firing  as  the  procession  appeared  ;  and  others  again  with  lines 
of  print  handkerchiefs,  which,  as  substitutes  for  flags,  they 
were  hanging  from  tree  to  tree. 

At  every  moment  the  crowd  became  greater  outside,  and 
the  company  inside  more  dense.  John  the  Clerk  called  on  his 
way  to  church,  and  whispered  Pete  that  everything  was  ready, 
and  they  were  going  to  sing  a  beautiful  psalm. 

"  It  isn't  many  a  man's  wedding  I  would  be  taking  the  same 


232  THE  MANXMAN. 

trouble  with."  said  John.  "  When  you  are  coming  down  the 
alley  give  a  sight  up,  sir,  and  j^ou'U  see  me." 

"  He's  only  a  poor  thing,"  said  Mr.  Jelly  in  Pete's  ear  as 
John  the  Clerk  went  off.  "  No  more  music  in  the  man  than 
my  ould  sow.  Did  you  hear  the  horn  this  morning,  sir  ? 
Never  got  up  so  early  for  a  wedding  before.  I'll  be  giving 
you  '  the  Black  and  the  Grey  '  going  into  the  church." 

Grannie  came  down  in  a  gigantic  bonnet  like  a  half-moon, 
with  her  white  cap  visible  beneath  it  ;  and  Nancy  Joe  ap- 
peared behind  her,  be-ribboned  out  of  all  recognition,  and 
taller  by  many  inches  for  the  turret  of  feathers  and  flowers 
on  the  head  that  was  usually  bare. 

Then  the  church  bells  began  to  peal,  and  Cagsar  made  a 
prolonged  A — hm  !  and  said  in  a  large  way,  "Has  the  car- 
riage arrived  ? " 

"  It's  coming  over  by  the  bridge  now,"  said  somebody  at 
the  door,  and  at  the  next  moment  a  covered  wagonette  drew 
up  at  the  porch. 

"  All  ready  ? "  asked  Csesar. 

"Stop,  sir,"  said  Pete,  and  then,  turning  to  Nancy  Joe,  "Is 
it  glad  a  man  should  be  on  his  wedding-day,  Nancj^  ? " 

"  Why,  of  coorse,  you  goose.     What  else  ? "  she  answered. 

"Well,  no  man  can  be  glad  in  a  shirt  like  this,"  said  Pete  ; 
"  I'm  going  back  to  take  it  off." 

Two  minutes  afterwards  he  reappeared  in  his  flannel  one, 
under  his  suit  of  blue  pilot,  looking  simple  and  natural,  and  a 
man  every  inch  of  him. 

"  Now  call  the  bride,"  said  Caesar. 


XXI. 

Kate  had  been  kept  awake  during  the  dark  hours  with  a 
sound  in  her  ears  that  was  like  the  measured  ringing  of  far- 
off  bells.  When  the  daylight  came  she  slept  a  troubled  sleep, 
and  when  she  awoke  she  had  a  sense  of  stupefaction,  as  if  she 
had  taken  a  drug,  and  was  not  yet  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  it.  Nancy  came  bouncing  into  her  room  and  crying,  "  It's 
your  wedding-day,  Kitty  !"  She  answered  by  repeating  me- 
chanically, "It's  your  wedding  day,  Kittj^" 

There  was  an  expression  of  serenity  on  her  face  ;  she  even 


MAN  AND   WOxMAN.  j^^^ 

smiled  a  little.  A  sort  of  vague  gaiety  came  over  her,  such  as 
comes  to  oue  who  has  watched  long  iu  agony  and  suspense  by 
the  bed  of  a  sick  person  and  the  person  is  dead.  Nancy  drew 
the  little  window  curtain  aside,  stooped  down,  and  looked  out 
and  said,  '' '  Happy  the  bride  the  sun  shines  on  '  they're  saying, 
and  look  !  the  sun  is  shining. " 

''  Oh,  but  the  sun  is  an  old  sly-boots,"  she  answered. 

They  came  up  to  dress  her.  She  kept  stumbling  against 
things,  and  then  laughing  in  a  faint  way.  The  dress  was  the 
new  one,  and  when  they  had  put  it  on  they  stood  back  from 
her  and  shouted  with  delight.  She  took  up  the  little  broken 
hand-glass  to  look  at  herself.  Her  great  eyes  sparkled  pite- 
ously. 

The  church  bells  began  to  ring  her  wedding-peal.  She 
had  to  listen  hard  to  hear  it.  All  sounds  seemed  to  be  very 
far  awaj^  ;  everything  looked  a  long  way  off.  She  was  living 
in  a  sort  of  dead  white  dawn  of  thought  and  feeling. 

At  last  they  came  to  say  tlie  coach  was  ready  and  every- 
thing was  waiting  for  the  bride.  She  repeated  their  message 
like  a  machine,  made  a  slow  gesture,  and  followed  them  down- 
stairs. When  she  got  near  to  the  bottom,  she  looked  around 
on  the  faces  below  as  if  expecting  to  see  somebody.  Just 
then  her  father  was  saying,  "  Mr.  Christian  is  to  meet  us  at 
the  church.'' 

She  smiled  faintly  and  answered  the  people's  greetings  in 
an  indistinct  tone.  There  was  some  indulgent  whispering  at 
sight  of  her  pale  face.  "  Pale  but  genteel,"  said  some  one,  and 
then  Nancy  reached  over  and  drew  the  bride's  veil  down  over 
her  face. 

At  the  next  minute  she  was  outside  the  house,  standing  at 
the  back  of  the  wagonette.  The  coachman,  with  his  Avhite 
rosette,  was  holding  the  door  open  on  one  side,  and  her  father 
was  elevating  her  hand  on  the  other. 

"  Am  I  to  go,  then  ? "  she  asked  in  a  helpless  voice. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ? "  said  Caesar.  "  Shall  the  man 
slip  off  and  get  married  to  himself,  think  you  ?  " 

There  was  laughter  among  the  people  standing  round,  and 
she  laughed  also  and  stepped  into  the  coach.  Her  mother 
followed  her,  crinkling  in  noisy  old  silk,  and  Nancy  Joe 
came  next,  smelling  of  lavender  and  hair-oil.  Then  her  father 
got  in,  and  then  Pete,  with  his  great  warm  presence. 


234  THE  MANXMAN. 

A  salute  of  six  guns  was  fired  straight  up  by  the  coach- 
windows.  The  horses  praoced,  Nancy  screamed,  and  Grannie 
started,  but  Kate  gave  no  sign.  People  were  closing  round 
the  coach-door  and  shouting  altogether  as  at  a  fair.  "  Good 
luck  to  you,  boy.  Good  luck  !  Good  luck  ! "  Pete  was  an- 
swering in  a  rolling  voice  that  seemed  to  be  lifting  the  low 
roof  off,  and  at  the  same  time  flinging  money  out  in  handfuis 
as  the  horses  moved  away. 

They  were  going  slowly  down  the  road.  From  somewhere 
in  front  came  the  sound  of  a  clarionet.  It  was  playing  "  the 
Black  and  the  Grey."  Immediately  behind  there  was  the 
tramp  of  people  walking  with  an  even  step,  and  on  either  side 
the  rustle  of  an  irregular  crowd.  The  morning  was  warm 
and  beautiful.  Here  and  there  the  last  of  the  golden  cushag 
glistened  on  the  hedges  with  the  first  of  the  autunm  gorse. 
They  passed  two  or  three  houses  that  had  been  made  roofless 
by  the  recent  storm,  and  once  or  twice  they  came  on  a  fallen 
tree-trunk  with  its  thin  leaves  yellowing  on  the  fading  gi'ass. 

Kate  was  floating  vaguely  through  these  sights  and  sounds. 
It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  her — a  w^aking  dream  in  shadow- 
land.  She  knew  where  she  was  and  where  she  was  going. 
Some  glimmering  of  hope  was  left  yet.  She  was  half  expect- 
ing a  miracle  of  some  sort.  Philip  would  be  at  the  church. 
Something  supernatural  would  occur. 

They  drew  up  sharply,  the  glass  of  the  windows  rattled, 
and  the  talk  that  had  been  going  on  in  the  carriage  ceased. 
"  Here  we  are,"  cried  Caesar  ;  there  were  voices  outside,  and 
then  the  others  inside  stepped  down.  She  saw  a  hand  held 
out  to  her  and  knew  whose  it  was  before  her  ej'es  had 
risen  to  the  face.  Philip  was  there.  He  was  helping  her  to 
alight. 

"  Am  I  to  get  down  too  ?"  she  asked  in  a  helpless  way. 

Caesar  said  something  that  made  the  people  laugh  again, 
and  then  she  smiled  like  faded  sunshine  and  took  the  hand  of 
Philip.  She  held  it  a  moment  as  if  expecting  him  to  say 
something,  but  he  only  raised  his  hat.  His  face  was  white  as 
marble.     He  will  speak  yet,  she  thought. 

Over  the  gateway  to  the  churchyard  there  was  an  arch  of 
flowers  and  evergreens,  with  an  inscription  in  coloured  let- 
ters :  "God  bless  the  happy  pair."  The  sloping  path  going 
down  as  to  a  dell  was  strewn  with  gilvei's  and  slips  of  fuchsia. 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  285 

At  the  bottom  stood  the  okl  church  mantled  in  ivy,  hke  a  rock 
of  the  sea  covered  by  greeu  moss. 

Leaning  on  her  father's  arm  she  walked  in  at  the  porcli. 
The  church  \vas  full  of  people.  As  they  passed  under  tlie 
gallery  there  was  a  twittering  as  of  birds.  The  Sunday-school 
girls  were  up  tliere,  looking  down  and  talking  eagerly.  Then 
the  coughing  and  hemming  ceased  ;  tliere  was  a  sort  of  deep 
inspiration  ;  the  church  seemed  to  hold  its  breath  for  a  mo- 
ment. After  that  there  were  broken  exclamations,  and  the 
coughing  and  hemming  began  again.  "How  pale  !  "— "  Not 
fit,  poor  thing."     Everybody  was  pitying  her  starved  features. 

''  Stand  here,"  said  somebody  in  a  soft  voice. 

"  Must  I  ?  "  she  said  quite  loudly. 

All  at  once  she  was  aware  that  she  was  alone  before  the 
communion  rail,  with  the  parson — old  ruddy-faced  Parson 
Quiggin — in  his  white  surplice  facing  her.  Some  one  came 
and  stood  beside  her.  It  was  Pete.  She  did  not  look  at  him, 
but  she  felt  his  warm  presence  again,  and  was  relieved.  It 
was  like  shelter  from  the  eyes  around.  After  a  moment  she 
turned  about.  Philip  was  one  step  behind  Pete.  His  head 
was  bent. 

Then  the  service  began.  The  voice  of  the  parson  muttered 
words  in  a  low  voice,  but  she  did  not  listen.  She  found  her- 
self trying  to  spell  out  the  Manx  text  printed  over  the  chancel 
arch  :  "  Bannet  T'eshyn  Ta  Cheet  ayns  Ennyn  y  Chearn  " 
C  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  "). 

Suddenly  the  words  the  parson  was  speaking  leapt  into 
meaning  and  made  her  quiver. 

''....  is  commended  of  Saint  Paul  to  be  honourable 
among  all  men,  and  therefore  not  by  any  to  be  enterprised, 
nor  taken  in  hand  unadvisedly,  lightly,  or  wantonly " 

She  seemed  to  know  that  Philip's  eyes  were  on  her.  They 
were  on  the  back  of  her  head,  and  the  veil  over  her  face  began 
to  shake. 

The  voice  of  the  parson  was  going  on  again — 

"  Therefore  if  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why  they  may 
not  lawfully  be  joined  together,  let  him  now  speak,  or  else 
hereafter  for  ever  hold  his  peace." 

She  turned  half  around.  Her  eyes  fell  on  Philip.  His 
face  was  colourless,  almost  fierce  ;  his  forehead  wjis  deathly 
white.  She  was  sure  that  something  was  about  to  happen. 
18 


236  THE   MANXMAN. 

Now  was  the  moment  for  the  miracle.  It  seem.ed  to  her  as  if 
the  whole  congregation  were  beginning  to  divine  what  tie 
there  was  between  him  and  her.  She  did  not  care,  for  he 
would  soon  declare  it.  He  was  going  to  do  so  now ;  he  had 
raised  his  head,  he  was  about  to  speak. 

No,  there  was  no  miracle.  Philip's  eyes  fell  before  her 
eyes,  and  his  head  went  down.  He  was  only  digging  at  the 
red  baize  with  one  of  his  feet.  She  felt  tired,  so  very  tired, 
and  oh  !  so  cold.  The  parson  had  gone  on  with  his  reading. 
When  she  caught  up  with  him  he  was  saying — 

"  —as  ye  shall  answer  at  the  great  day  of  judgment,  when 
the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  disclosed,  that  if  either  of  you 
know  any  impediment  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined  to- 
gether in  matrimony,  ye  do  now  confess  it." 

The  parson  paused.  He  had  always  paused  at  that  point. 
The  pause  had  no  meaning  for  him,  but  for  Kate  how  much  ! 
Impediment  ?  There  was  indeed  an  impediment.  Confess  ? 
How  could  she  ever  confess  ?  The  warning  terrified  her.  It 
seemed  to  have  been  made  for  her  alone.  She  had  heard  it 
before,  and  thought  nothing  of  it.  Now  it  seemed  to  scorch 
her  very  soul.     She  began  to  tremble  violently. 

There  was  an  indistinct  murmur  which  she  did  not  catch. 
The  parson  seemed  to  be  spealdng  to  Pete — 

" — love  her,  comfort  her,  honour  and  keep  her  ...  so 
long  as  ye  both  shall  live." 

And  then  came  Pete's  voice,  full  and  sti'ong  from  his  gi'eat 
chest,  but  far  off,  and  going  by  her  ear  like  a  voice  in  a  shell 
-''I  will." 

After  that  the  parson's  words  seemed  to  be  falling  on  her 
face. 

"  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  v/edded  husband,  to  live 
together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the  holy  estate  of  matri- 
mony ?  Wilt  thou  obey  him  and  serve  him,  love,  honour, 
and  keep  him  in  sickness  and  in  health  ;  and.  forsaking  all 
other,  keep  thee  unto  him,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live  ?  " 

Kate  was  far  away.  She  was  spelling  out  the  Manx  text, 
"  Bannet  T'eshyn  Ta  Chcet,"  but  the  letters  were  dancing  in 
and  out  of  each  other,  and  yellow  lights  were  darting  from  her 
eyes.  Suddenly  she  was  aware  that  the  parson's  voice  had 
stopped.  There  was  blank  silence,  then  an  uneasy  rustle,  and 
then  somebody  was  saying  something  in  a  soft  tone. 


MAN   AND    W03IAN.  2:]7 

"Eh?"  she  said  aloud. 

The  parson's  voice  came  now  in  a  wliisper  at  her  breast — 
"Say,  a  will.'" 

''  Ah  !  "  she  murmured. 

"  T— will  !  That's  all,  my  dear.  Say  it  with  me,  '  I— 
\vill.'" 

She  framed  her  lips  to  speak,  but  the  words  were  half 
uttered  by  the  parson.  The  next  thin^  she  knew  was  that  a 
stray  hand  ^vas  holding  her  hand.  She  felt  more  safe  now 
that  her  poor  cold  fingers  lay  in  that  big-  warm  palm. 

It  was  Pete,  and  he  was  speaking  again.  She  did  not  so 
much  hear  him  as  feel  his  voice  tingling  through  her  veins. 

'' '  I,  Peter  Quilliam,  take  thee,  Katherine  Cregeen '  " 

But  it  was  all  a  vague  murmur,  fraying  off  into  nothing, 
ending  like  a  wave  with  a  long  upward  plash  of  low  sound. 

The  parson  was  speaking  to  her  again,  softly,  gently, 
caressingly,  almost  as  if  she  were  a  frightened  child.  "  Don't 
be  afraid,  my  dear  !  try  to  speak  after  me.  Take  your 
time." 

Then,  aloud,  "  '  I,  Katherine  Cregeen.'  " 

Her  throat  gurgled  ;  she  faltered,  but  she  spoke  at  length 
m  the  toneless  voice  of  one  who  speaks  in  sleep. 

"  '  I,  Katherine  Cregeen '  " 

"  '  Take  thee,  Peter  Quilliam '  " 

The  toneless  voice  broke " '  take  thee,  Peter  Quil- 
liam  '" 

And  then  all  came  in  a  rush,  with  some  of  the  words  dis- 
tinctly repeated,  and  some  of  them  droned  and  dro])])ed — 

" '  to  my  wedded  husband,  to  have  and  to  hold '  " 

" 'have^and  to  hold '" 

" '  from  this  day  forward  ....  till  death  do  us  part '" 

'' '  death  do  us  part ' " 

" •  therefore  I  give  thee  my  troth '  " 

" 'troth '" 

The  last  word  fell  like  a  broken  echo,  and  then  there  was 
a  rustle  in  the  church,  and  much  audible  l)reathing.  Some 
of  the  school-girls  in  the  gallery  were  reaching  over  the  pews 
with  parted  lips  and  dancing  eyes. 

Pete  had  taken  her  left  hand,  and  was  putting  the  ring  on 
her  finger.  She  was  conscious  of  his  warm  breatli  and  of  the 
woi'ds — 


238  THE  MANXMAN. 

4 

"  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,  with  my  hody  I  thee  worship, 
and  with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  ihee  endow,  Amen." 

Again  she  left  her  cold  hand  in  Pete's  warm  hand.  He  was 
stroking  it  on  the  outside  with  his  other  one. 

It  was  all  a  dream.  She  seemed  to  rally  from  it  as  she 
moved  down  the  aisle.  Ghostly  faces  were  smiling  at  her  out 
of  the  air  on  either  side,  and  the  choir  in  the  gallery  hehind 
the  school-girls  were  singing  the  psalm,  with  John  the  Clerk's 
husky  voice  drawling  out  the  first  word  of  each  new  verse  as 
his  companions  were  singing  the  last  word  of  the  preceding 
one — 

"Thy  wife  shall  be  as  the  fruitful  vine  upon  the  walls  of  thine  house; 
Thy  children  like  the  olive  branches  round  about  thy  table. 
As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be;  world  with- 
out end,  A — men." 

They  were  all  in  the  vestry  now,  standing  together  in  a 
group.  Her  mother  was  wiping  her  eyes,  Pete  was  laughing, 
and  Nancy  Joe  was  nudging  him  and  saying  in  an  audible 
whisper,  "Kiss  her,  man — it's  only  respectable." 

The  parson  was  leaning  over  the  table.  He  spoke  to  Pete, 
and  then  said,  "A  substantial  mark,  too.  The  lady's  turn 
next." 

The  open  book  was  before  her,  and  the  pen  was  put  into  her 
hand.  V/hen  she  laid  it  dov»n,  the  parson  returned  his  specta- 
cles to  their  sheath,  and  a  nervous  voice,  which  thrilled  and 
frightened  her,  said  from  behind,  ''  Let  me  be  the  first  to  wish 
you  happiness,  Mrs.  Quilliam." 

It  was  Philip.  She  turned  towards  him,  and  their  eyes  met 
for  a  moment.  But  she  was  only  conscious  of  his  prominent 
nose,  his  clear-cut  chin,  his  rapid  smile  like  sunshine,  disap- 
pearing as  before  a  cloud.  He  said  something  else — some- 
thing about  a  new  life  and  a  new  beginning — but  she  could 
not  gather  its  meaning,  her  mind  would  not  take  it  in.  At 
the  next  moment  they  were  all  in  the  open  air. 


XXII. 

Philip  had  been  in  torment— first  the  torment  of  an  irre- 
sistible hatred  of  Kate.  He  knew  that  this  hatred  was  illog- 
ical, that  it  was  monstrous  ;  but  it  supported  his  pride,  it  held 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  231) 

him  safe  above  self-contempt  in  being  present  at  the  weddinpf. 
When  the  carrid<je  drew  up  at  the  church  gate,  and  he  heli)cd 
Kate  to  alight,  he  thought  she  looked  up  at  liim  as  one  who 
says,  ''You  see,  tilings  are  not  so  bad  after  all  !"  And  when 
she  turned  her  face  to  him  at  the  beginning  of  the  service,  he 
thought  it  wore  a  look  of  fierce  trium])h,  of  victoiy,  of  disdain. 
But  as  the  ceremony  proceeded  and  he  observed  her  absent- 
ness,  her  vacancy,  her  pathetic  imbecility,  he  began  to  be  op- 
pressed by  an  awful  sense  of  her  consciousness  of  error.  Was 
she  taking  this  step  out  of  pique  ?  Was  she  thinking  to  pun- 
ish liim,  forgetting  the  price  she  would  have  to  pay  ?  Would 
sbe  awake  to-morrow  morning  with  her  vexation  and  vanity 
gone,  face  to  face  with  a  hideous  future — the  worst  and  most 
terrible  that  is  possible  to  any  woman — that  of  being  married 
to  one  man  and  loving  another  ? 

Faugh  !  Would  his  own  vanity  haunt  him  even  there  ? 
Shame,  shame  !  He  forced  himself  to  do  the  duty  of  a  best 
man.  In  the  vestry  he  approached  the  bride  and  muttered 
the  cons'entional  wishes.  His  heart  was  devouring  iisclf  like 
a  rapid  fire,  and  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  look  into  her 
piteous  eyes  and  speak.  Struggle  as  he  might  at  that  moment, 
he  could  not  put  out  of  his  heart  a  passionate  tenderness.  This 
frightened  him,  and  straightway  he  resolved  to  see  no  more  of 
Kate,  He  must  be  fair  to  her,  he  must  be  true  to  himself.  But 
walking  behind  her  up  the  path  strewn  with  flowers  from  the 
church  door  to  the  gate,  the  gnawings  of  the  worm  of  buried 
love  came  on  him  again,  and  he  felt  like  a  man  who  was 
being  dragged  through  the  dirt. 


xxm. 

Four  saddle-horses,  each  with  its  rider  seated  and  ready, 
had  been  waiting  at  the  churchyard  gate,  pawing  up  the 
gravel.  The  instant  the  bride  and  bridegroom  came  out  of 
the  church  the  horses  set  oflp  for  Cnesar's  house  at  a  furious 
gallop.  Kate  and  Pete,  Cassar,  Grannie,  and  Nancy,  with  the 
addition  of  Philip  and  Parson  Quiggin,  returned  in  the  covered 
carriage. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  the  way  was  blocked  by  a  group  of 
stalwart  girls  out  of  the  la.st  of  the  year's  cornfields.     With 


240  THE   MANXMAN. 

the  straw  rope  of  the  stackyard  stretched  across,  they  demanded 
toll  before  the  carriage  would  be  allowed  to  pass.  Pete,  who 
sat  by  the  door,  put  his  head  out  and  inquh'ed  solemnly  if  the 
highway  women  would  take  their  charge  in  silver  or  in  kind — 
half-a-crown  apiece  or  a  kiss  all  round.  They  laughed,  and 
answered  that  they  saw  no  objection  to  taking  both.  Where- 
upon Pete,  whispering  behind  his  hand  that  the  mistress  was 
looking,  tossed  into  the  air  a  paper  bag,  which  rose  like  a 
cannon-ball,  broke  in  the  air  like  a  shell,  and  fell  over  their 
white  sun-bonnets  like  a  shower* 

At  the  door  of  "The  Manx  Fairy"'  the  four  ridei^s  were 
waiting  with  smoking  horses.  The  first  to  arrive  had  been 
rewarded  already  with  a  bottle  of  rum.  He  had  one  other 
ancient  privilege.  As  the  coach  drove  up  to  the  door,  he 
stepped  up  to  the  bride  with  the  wedding-cake  and  broke  it 
over  her  head.  Then  there  was  a  scramble  for  the  pieces 
among  the  girls  who  gathered  round  her,  that  they  might 
take  them  to  bed  and  dream  of  a  day  to  come  when  they 
should  themselves  be  as  proud  and  happy. 

The  wedding-breakfast  (a  wedding-dinner)  was  laid  in  the 
loft  of  the  mill,  the  chapel  of  The  Christians.  Caesar  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  with  Grannie  on  one  side  and  Kate  on 
the  other.  Pete  sat  next  to  Kate,  and  Philip  next  to  Grannie. 
The  parson  sat  at  the  foot  with  Nancy  Joe,  a  lady  of  conse- 
quence, receiving  much  consideration,  at  his  reverent  right 
hand.  Jonaique  Jelly  sat  midway  down  the  table,  with  a  fine 
scorn  on  his. features,  for  John  the  Clerk  sat  opposite  with  a 
fiddle  gripped  between  his  knees. 

The  neighbours  brought  in  the  joints  of  beef  and  mutton, 
the  chickens  and  the  ducks.  Caesar  and  the  parson  carved. 
Black  Tom,  who  had  been  invited  by  way  of  truce,  served  out 
the  liquor  from  an  eighteen-gallon  cask,  and  sucked  it  up 
himself  like  the  sole  of  an  old  shoe.  Then  Casar  said  grace, 
and  the  company  fell  to.  Such  noise,  such  sport,  such  chaii', 
such  laughter  !  Everything  was  a  jest — every  word  had  wit 
in  it.  ''  How  are  you  doing,  John  ?  " — '*  Haven't  done  as  well 
for  a  month,  sir  ;  but  what's  it  saying,  two  hungry  meals 
make  the  third  a  glutton." — "How  are  you  doing,  Tom?" — 
"  No  time  to  get  a  right  mouthful  for  myself  Caesar  ;  kept  so 
busy  with  the  drink." — "  Aw,  therell  be  some  with  their  top 
works  hampered  soon." — "  Got  plenty,  Jonaique  ?  " — "  Plenty, 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  2-11 

sir,  plenty.  Eaough  down  here  to  victual  a  menagerie.  It'll 
be  Sunday  every  day  of  the  week  with  the  man  that's  gettiiij^ 
the  laviii.i2:s." — "Take  a  taste  of  this  beef  before  it  g-ocs,  Mr. 
Tliomas  Quilliam,  or  do  you  prefer  the  mutton?" — "  I"m  not 
particular,  Mr.  Cregeen.  Ateing's  nothing  to  me  but  iilliiig 
a  sack  that's  empty." 

Grannie  praised  the  wedding  service— it  wjis  lovely — it 
was  beautiful — she  didn't  think  the  ould  parzon  could  have 
made  the  like  ;  but  Ca3sar  criticised  both  church  and  clergy 
— couldn't  see  what  for  the  cross  on  the  pulpit  and  the  petti- 
coat on  the  parson.  "  Popery,  sir,  claue  Popery,"  lie  whis- 
pered across  Grannie  to  Philip. 

Away  went  the  siianks  of  mutton,  the  breasts  of  birds,  and 
the  slabs  of  beef,  and  up  came  an  apple-pudding  as  round  as  a 
well-fed  salmon,  and  as  long  as  a  twenty-pound  cod.  There 
was  a  shout  of  welcome.  '*  None  of  your  dynamite  pudding 
that. — as  green  as  grass  and  as  sour  as  vinegar." 

Kate  was  called  on  to  make  the  first  cut  of  the  monster. 
A  faint  colour  had  returned  to  her  cheeks  since  she  had  come 
home.  She  was  talking  a  little,  and  even  laughing  some- 
times, as  if  the  weight  on  her  heart  was  lightening  every  mo- 
ment. She  rose  at  the  call,  took,  with  the  hand  nearest  to 
the  dish,  the  knife  that  her  father  held  out,  and  plunged  it 
into  the  pudding.  As  she  did  so,  with  all  eyes  upon  her,  the 
wedding-ring  on  her  finger  flashed  in  the  light  and  was  seen 
by  everybody. 

"Look  at  that,  though,"  cried  Black  Tom.  "There's  the 
wife  for  a  husband,  if  you  plaze.  Ashamed  of  showing  it,  Is 
she  ?    Not  she,  the  bogh." 

Then  there  was  much  giggling  among  the  younger  women, 
and  cries  of  "  Aw,  the  poor  girl  !  Going  to  church  has  been 
making  her  left-handed  1 " 

"Time  enough,  my  beauties," cried  Pete  ;  "and  mind  you're 
not  struck  that  way  yoursel  ves  one  of  these  days. " 

Away  went  the  dishes,  and  the  parson  rose  to  return  thanks. 

"  Never  heard  that  grace  but  once  before,  Parson  Quiggin." 
said  Pete,  "and  then" — lighting  his  pipe — "then  it  was  a 
burial  sarvice." 

"  A  burial  sarvice  I " 

A  dozen  voices  echoed  the  words  together,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  table  was  quiet. 


242  THE   MANXMAN. 

"Yes,  thoufrh."  said  Pete.  "It  was  up  at  Joliannesbiu'fr. 
Two  chums  settled  there,  and  one  married  a  girl.  IS'ice  HI 
thing,  too  ;  some  of  the  Boer  girls,  you  know  ;  but  not  much 
ballast  at  her  at  all.  The  husband  went  up  country  for  the 
Consolidated  Co.,  and  when  he  came  back  there  was  trouble. 
Chum  had  been  sweethearting  the  wife  a  bit  I '' 

''  Aw,  dear  ! '  — ''  Aw,  well,  well  ! '' 

"Do  ?  The  husband  ?  He  went  after  the  chum  with  a  re- 
peater, and  took  him.  Bath-chair  sort  of  a  chap — no  figlit  in 
him  at  all.  '  Mercy  I '  he  cries.  '  I  can't,*  says  the  husband. 
'  Forgive  him  this  once,'  says  the  wife.  '  It's  only  once  a 
woman  loses  herself,'  says  the  man.  '  Mercy,  mercy  ! '  '  Say 
your  prayers.'  '  Mercy,  mercy,  mercy  I'  '  Too  late  ! '  and  the 
husband  shot  him  dead.  The  woman  dropped  in  a  faint,  but 
the  man  said,  '  He  didn't  say  his  prayers,  though — I  must  be 
doing  it  for  him.'  Then  down  he  went  on  his  knees  by  the 
body,  but  the  prayers  were  all  forgot  at  him — all  but  the  bit 
of  a  grace,  so  he  said  that  instead." 

Loud  breathings  on  every  side  followed  Pete's  story,  and 
Caesar,  leaning  over  towards  Philip,  whose  face  had  grown 
ashy,  said,  '*  Terrible,  sir,  terrible  !  But  still  and  for  all,  right 
enough,  though,  eh  1  What's  it  saying,  Better  an  enemy  than 
a  bad  friend." 

Pliilip  answered  absently  ;  his  eyes  were  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table.  There  was  a  sudden  rising  of  the  people 
about  Kate. 

"  Water,  there,"  shouted  Pete.  "  It's  a  thundering  block- 
head I  am  for  sure— frightning  the  life  out  of  people  with 
stories  fit  for  a  funeral." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Kate  ;  "  I'm  not  faint.  Why  should  you 
think  so  ? " 

"  Of  coorse,  not,  bogh,"  said  Nancy,  who  was  behind  her  in 
a  twinkling.  "  White  is  she  ?  Well,  what  of  it,  man  ?  It's 
only  becoming  on  a  girl's  wedding-day.  Take  a  lil  sup, 
though,  woman — there,  there  I  " 

Kate  drank  the  water,  with  the  glass  jingling  against  her 
teeth,  and  then  began  to  laugh.  The  parson's  ruddy  face  rose 
at  the  end  of  the  table.  ''  Friends,"  he  said,  "  after  that  tragic 
storj",  let  us  indulge  in  a  little  vanity.  Fill  up  your  glasses  to 
the  brim,  and  drink  with  me  to  the  health  of  the  happy  couple. 
We  all  know  both  of  them.     We  know  the  bride  for  a  good 


MAN    AND    WOMAN.  ^^43 

daughter  and  a  sweet  girl — one  so  naturally  pure  that  nolxxly 
cau  ever  say  an  evil  word  or  think  an  evil  thought  wlicn  she 
is  near.  We  know  the  hridegroom  for  a  real  Manxman,  sim- 
ple and  rugged  and  true,  who  says  all  he  thinks  and  tliinks  all 
he  says.  God  has  been  very  good  to  them.  Such  virginiil 
and  transparent  souls  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  It  is  not 
for  them  to  struggle  with  that  worst  enemy  of  man,  the  enemy 
that  is  within,  the  enemy  of  bad  passions.  So  we  can  wish 
tliem  joy  on  their  union  with  a  full  heart  and  a  sure  hope 
that,  whatev^er  chance  befall  them  on  the  ways  of  this  world, 
they  will  be  happy  and  content." 

''Aw,  the  beautiful  advice,"  said  Grannie,  wiping  her  eye-. 

"  Popery,  just  Popery,"  muttered  Cassar.  "  WJiat  about 
original  sin  ? " 

There  was  a  chorus  of  iipplause.  Kate  was  still  laughing. 
Philip's  head  was  down. 

"And  now,  friends,"  continued  the  parson,  "Captain  Quil- 
liam  has  been  a  successful  man  abroad,  but  he  has  had  to  come 
home  to  do  the  best  piece  of  work  he  ever  did."  (A  voice — 
"Do  it  yourself,  parzon.")  "It  is  true  IVe  never  done  it  my- 
self. Vanity  of  vanities,  love  is  not  for  me.  It's  been  the 
Lord's  will  to  put  me  here  to  do  the  marrying'  and  leave  my 
people  to  do  the  loving.  But  there  is  a  young  man  present 
who  has  all  the  world  before  him  and  everything  this  life  can 
promise  except  one  thing,  and  that's  the  best  thing  of  all— a 
wife."  (Kate's  laughter  grew  boisterous.)  "This  morning  he 
helped  his  friend  to  marry  a  pure  and  beautiful  maiden.  Now 
let  me  remind  him  of  the  text  which  saj^s,  '  Go  thou  and  do 
likewise.' " 

The  toast  was  drunk  standing,  with  shouts  of  "  Cap'n  Pete," 
and,  amid  much  hammering  on  the  table,  stamping  on  tlie 
floor,  and  other  thunderings  of  applause,  Cap'n  Pete  I'oUed  up 
to  reply.  After  a  moment's  pause,  in  which  he  distributed 
sage  winks  and  nods  on  every  side,  he  said  :  "  I'm  not  much 
for  public  spaking  myself.  I  made  my  best  speech  and  my 
shortest  in  church  this  morning — /  u'ill.  The  parzon  has 
has  been  telling  my  dooincj/  molla  to  do  as  I  have  done  to- 
day. He  can't.  Begging  pardon  of  the  ladies,  there's  only 
one  woman  on  the  island  tit  for  him,  and  I've  got  her." 
(Kate's  laughter  grew  shrill.)     "  My  wife " 

At  this  word,  uttered  with  an  air  of  life-long  familiarity, 


24:4:  THE   MANXMAN. 

twenty  clay  pipes  lost  tlieir  heads  by  collision  with  the  table, 
and  Pete  was  interrupted  by  roars  of  laughter. 

"  Gough  bless  me,  can't  a  married  man  mention  his  wife  in 
company  ^     Weil  then.  Mistress  Cap'n  Peter  Quilliam " 

This  mouthful  was  the  signal  for  another  riotous  interrup- 
tion, and  a  general  call  for  more  to  drink. 

"  Won't  that  do  for  you  neither  ?  I'm  not  going  back  on 
it.  though.  '  Whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put 
asunder '—isn't  that  it,  Parzon  Quiggin  ?  What's  it  you're 
saying — no  man  but  the  Dempster  ?  Well,  the  Dempster's 
here  that  is  to  be— I'll  clear  him  of  that,  anyway." 

Kate's  laughter  became  explosive  and  uncontrollable.  Pete 
nodded  sideways  to  fill  up  the  gap  in  his  eloquence,  and  then 
went  on.  "  But  if  my  dooiney  molla  can't  marry  my  wife, 
there's  one  thing  he  can  do  for  her— he  can  make  her  house 
his  home  in  Eamsey  when  he  goes  to  Douglas  for  good  and 
comes  down  here  to  the  coorts  once  a  fortnight." 

Kate  laughed  more  immoderately  than  ever  ;  but  Philip, 
with  a  look  of  alarm,  half  rose  from  his  seat,  and  said  across 
the  table.  ''  There's  my  aunt  at  Ballure,  Pete." 

"  She'll  be  following  after  you,"  said  Pete. 

"  There  are  liotels  enough  for  travellers,"  said  Philip. 

"  Too  many  by  half,  and  that's  why  I  asked  in  public,''  said 
Pete. 

"  I  know  the  brotherly  feeling "  began  Philip. 

"  Is  it  a  promise  ? "  demanded  Pete. 

"  If  I  can't  escape  your  kindness " 

"  No,  you  can't  ;  so  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  It  will  kill  me  yet " 

"  May  you  never  die  till  it  polishes  you  off." 

At  Philip's  submission  to  Pete's  will,  there  was  a  general 
chorus  of  cheers,  through  which  Kate's  shrill  laughter  rang 
like  a  scream.  Pete  patted  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  contin- 
ued, "  And  now,  young  fellows  there,  let  an  ould  experienced 
married  man  give  you  a  bit  of  advice — he  swore  away  all  his 
worldly  goods  this  morning,  so  he  hasn't  much  else  to  give. 
I've  no  belief  in  bachelors  myself.  They're  like  a  tub  without 
a  handle— nothing  to  lay  hould  of  them  by."  (Much  nudging 
and  whispering  about  the  bottom  of  the  table.)  "What's  that 
down  yonder  ?  '  The  vicar,'  you  say  ?  Aw,  the  vicar's  a  grand 
man,  but  he's  only  a  parzon,  you  see.     Mr.  Christian,  is  it  ? 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  245 

He's  got  too  much  work  to  do  to  be  thinking  about  women. 
We're  living  on  the  nineteenth  century,  boys,  and  it's  mid- 
dling hard  feeding  for  some  of  us.  If  the  fishing's  going  to 
the  dogs  and  the  farming  going  to  the  deuce,  don't  be  tossing 
head  over  tip  at  the  tail  of  the  tourist.  If  you've  got  the 
pumping  engine  inside  of  you,  in  plain  English,  if  you've  got 
tlie  indomable  character  of  the  rael  Manxman,  do  as  I  done — 
go  foreign.  Then  watch  your  opportunity.  What's  Shake- 
spar  saying  ? "  Pete  paused.  "  What's  that  he's  saying,  now  ? " 
Pete  scratched  his  forehead.  "  Something  about  a  Hood,  any- 
way." Pete  stretched  his  hand  out  vigorously.  "  '  Lay  liould 
of  it  at  the  Hood,'  says  he,  '  that's  the,  way  to  make  your  for- 
tune.' " 

Then  Pete  melted  to  sentiment,  glanced  down  at  Kate's 
head,  and  continued,  "  And  when  you  come  back  to  the  ould 
island — and  there  isn't  no  place  like  it— you  can  marry  the 
girl  of  your  heart,  God  bless  her.  Work's  black,  but  money's 
white,  and  love  is  as  sweet  on  potatoes  and  herrings  three 
times  a  day,  as  on  nothing  for  dinner,  and  the  same  every 
night  of  the  week  for  supper.  While  you're  away,  you'll  be 
draming  of  her.  ' Is  she  faithful  ? '  'Is  she  thrue  ? '  Coorse 
she  is,  and  waiting  to  take  you  the  veiy  minute  you  come 
home."  Kate  was  still  laughing  as  if  she  could  not  stop. 
"  Look  out  for  the  right  sort,  boys.  Plenty  of  the  like  in  yet. 
If  the  young  men  of  these  days  are  more  smart  and  more  edu- 
cated than  their  fathers,  the  young  women  are  more  hand- 
some and  more  virtuous  than  their  mothers.  So  ben-my-chree, 
my  hearties,  and  enough  in  the  locker  to  drive  away  the  divil 
and  the  coroner." 

Through  the  volley  of  cheers  which  followed  Pete's  speech 
came  the  voice  of  Black  Tom,  thick  with  drink,  "  Drive  oif  the 
crow  at  the  wedding-breakfast.'' 

Everybody  rose  and  looked.  A  great  crow,  black  as  night, 
had  come  in  at  the  open  door  of  the  mill,  calmly,  sedately,  as 
if  by  habit,  for  tlie  corn  that  usually  lay  there. 

"It  manes  divorce,"  said  Black  Tom. 

"  Scare  it  away,"  cried  some  one. 

"  It's  the  new  wife  must  do  it,"  said  another. 

"Where's  Kate  ?"  cried  Nancy. 

But  Kate  only  looked  and  went  on  laughing  as  ])efore. 

The  crow  turned  tail  and  took  flight  of  itself  at  finding  so 


246  THE  MANXMAN. 

eag-er  an  audience.  Then  Pete  said,  '*  Whose  houlding  with 
such  ould  wife's  wonders  ? " 

And  Ca3sar  answered,  "  Coorse  not,  or  fairies  either.  I've 
slept  out  all  night  on  Cronk-ny-airy-Lhaa — before  my  days  of 
grace.  I  mane — and  J  never  seen  no  fairies." 

''  It  would  be  a  fool  of  a  fairy,  though,  that  would  let  you 
see  him,  Caesar,"  said  Black  Tom. 

At  nine  o'clock  Ctesar's  gig  was  at  the  door  of  ''  The  ^lanx 
Fairy"  to  take  the  bride  and  bridegroom  home.  They  had 
sung  "  Mylecharane,"  and  ''  Keerie  fu  Snaighty,"  and  '*  Hunt- 
ing the  Wren,"  and  "  The  Win'  that  Shook  the  Barley,'*  and 
then  they  had  cleared  away  the  tables  and  danced  to  the  fiddle 
of  John  the  Clerk  and  the  clarionet  of  Jonaique  Jelly.  Kate, 
with  wild  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  had  taken  part  in  every- 
thing, but  always  fiercely,  violently,  almost  tempestuously. 
until  people  lost  enjoyment  of  her  heartiness  in  fear  of  her 
hysteria,  and  Caesar  whispered  Pete  to  take  her  away,  and 
brought  round  the  gig  to  hasten  them. 

Kate  went  up  for  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  in  the  interval 
between  her  departure  and  reai^pearance.  Grannie  and  Nancy 
Joe,  both  glorified  beings,  Nancy  with  her  unaccustomed  cap 
askew,  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  group  of  women,  who  were 
deferring,  and  inquiring,  and  sympathising. 

"  I  don't  know  in  the  world  how  she  has  kept  up  so  long," 
said  Grannie. 

"  And  dear  heart  knows  how  Fm  to  keep  up  when  she's 
gone,"  said  Nancy,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

Kate  came  down  ready.  Everybody  followed  her  into  the 
road,  and  all  stood  round  the  gig  with  flashes  from  the  gig- 
lamps  on  their  faces,  while  Pete  swung  her  up  into  the  seat, 
lifting  her  bodily  in  his  great  arms. 

"You  wouldn't  drown  yourself  to-night  for  an  ould  rusty 
nail,  eh,  Capt'n  ?"  cried  somebody  with  a  laugh. 

''You  go  bail,"  said  Pete,  and  he  leapt  up  to  Kate's  side, 
twiddled  the  reins,  cracked  the  whip,  and  they  drove  away. 


MAX    AND    WOMAN.  24 


XXIV. 


Philip  had  stood  at  the  door  of  the  poi-cli,  strug^gling  to 
command  his  soul,  and  employing-  all  his  powers  to  look 
cheerful  and  even  gay.  But  as  Kate  had  passed  she  had 
looked  at  him  with  an  imploring  look,  and  then  he  had 
seemed  to  understand  everything— that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take and  that  she  knew  it,  that  her  laughter  had  ])een  bitterer 
than  tears,  that  some  compulsion  had  been  put  upon  her,  and 
that  she  was  a  wretched  and  miserable  woman.  xVt  the  next 
moment  she  had  gone  by  w^ith  an  odour  of  lace  and  perfume  ; 
and  then  a  flood  of  tenderness,  of  pity,  of  mad  jealousy  had 
come  upon  him,  and  it  had  been  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
restrain  hiriiself.  One  instant  he  held  himself  in  hand,  and 
at  the  next  the  wheels  of  the  gig  had  begun  to  move,  the 
horse  had  started,  the  women  had  trooped  into  the  house 
again,  and  there  was  nothing  before  him  but  the  broad  back 
of  Caesar,  who  was  looking  into  the  darkness  after  the  vanish- 
ing gig-lamps,  and  breathing  asthmatical  breath. 

"Therefore  shall  a  man  leave  his  father  and  his  mother 
and  shall  cleave  unto  his  wife,"  said  Csesar.  "You're  time 
enough  yet,  sir  ;  come  in,  come  in." 

But  the  man  was  odious  to  Philip  at  that  moment,  the 
house  was  odious,  tlie  people  and  the  talk  inside  were  odious, 
and  he  slipped  away  unobserved. 

Too  late  !  From  the  torment  of  his  own  thoughts  he  could 
not  escape — his  lost  love,  his  lost  happiness,  his  memoi'ies  of 
the  past,  his  dreams  of  the  future.  A  voice— it  was  his  own 
voice — seemed  to  be  taunting  him  constantly  :  "You  were  not 
worthy  of  her.  You  did  not  know  her  value.  She  is  gone  ; 
and  what  have  you  got  instead  ?" 

The  Deemstership  !  That  was  of  no  consequence  now.  A 
name,  an  idle  name  I  Love  was  the  only  thing  worth  having, 
and  it  was  lost.  Without  it  all  the  rest  was  nothing,  and  he 
had  flung  it  away.  He  had  been  a  monster,  he  had  been  a 
fool.  The  thought  of  his  folly  was  insupportable  ;  the  recol- 
lection of  his  selfishness  was  stifling  ;  the  memory  of  his  cal- 
culating deliberations  was  dragging  him  again  in  the  dust. 
Thus,  with  a  sense  of  crushing  shame,  he  plunged  down  the 
dark  road,  trying  not  to  think  of  the  gig  that  had  gone  swing- 
insr  along-  in  front  of  him. 


248  THE  MANXMAN. 

He  would  leav^e  the  island.  To-morrow  he  would  sail  for 
England.  No  matter  if  he  lost  the  chance  of  promotion. 
To-morrow,  to-morrow  !  But  to-night  ?  How  could  he  live 
through  the  hours  until  morning,  with  the  black  thoughts 
which  the  darkness  generated  ?  How  could  he  sleep  ?  How 
lie  awake  ?  What  drug  would  bring  foi'getfulness  ?  Kate  ! 
Pete  !    To-night  !    Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  ! 


XXV. 

Six  strides  of  the  horse  into  the  darkness  and  Kate's  hys- 
teria was  gone.  She  had  been  lost  to  herself  the  whole  day- 
through,  and  now  she  possessed  herself  again.  She  grew  quiet 
and  silent,  and  even  solemn.  But  Pete  rattled  on  with  cheer- 
ful talk  about  the  day's  doings.  At  the  doors  of  the  houses 
on  the  road  as  they  passed,  people  were  standing  in  the  half- 
light  to  wave  them  salutations,  and  Pete  sent  back  his  answei^ 
in  shouts  and  laughter.  Turning  the  bridge  they  saw  a  little 
group  at  the  porch  of  the  "  Ginger." 

"  There's  company  waiting  for  us  yonder,"  said  Pete,  giv- 
ing the  mare  a  touch  of  the  whip. 

''  Let  us  get  on,"  said  Kate  in  a  nervous  whisper. 

"Aw,  let's  be  neighbourly,  yoa  know,"  said  Pete.  "It 
wouldn't  be  dacent  to  disappoint  people  at  all.  We'll  hawl 
up  for  a  minute  just,  and  hoof  up  the  time  at  a  gallop.  Woa, 
lass,  woa,  mare,  woa,  bogh  I " 

As  the  gig  drew  up  at  the  iun  door,  a  v^oice  out  of  the  porch 
cried,  "  Joy  to  you,  Capt'n,  and  joy  to  your  lady,  and  long  life 
and  prosperity  to  you  both,  and  may  the  Lord  give  you  chil- 
dren and  health  and  happiness  to  rear  them,  and  may  you  see 
your  children's  children,  and  may  they  call  you  blessed." 

"  Glasses  round.  Mrs.  Kelly,"  shouted  Pete. 

"Go  on,  please,"  said  Kate  in  a  fretful  whisper,  and  she 
tugged  at  Pete's  sleeve. 

The  stars  came  out  ;  the  moon  gave  a  peep  ;  the  late  hay 
of  the  Curragh  sent  a  sv.^eet  odour  through  the  night.  Kate 
shuddered  and  Pete  covered  her  shoulders  with  a  rug.  Then 
he  began  to  sing  snatches.  He  sang  bits  of  all  the  songs  that 
had  been  sung  that  night,  but  kept  coming  back  at  intervals 
to  an  old  Manx  ditty  which  begins  — 


MAN   AND    WOMAN.  249 

'•  Little  red  bird  of  the  black  turf  j^n-ound. 
Where  did  you  sleep  last  night  T' 

Tims  he  saug  like  a  g^reat  boy  as  he  went  rolling  down  tlie 
(lark  road,  and  Kate  sat  by  his  side  and  trembled. 

They  came  to  the  town,  rattled  down  the  Parliament 
Street,  passed  the  Court-house  under  the  trees,  turned  the 
sharp  angle  by  the  market-place,  'and  di'ew  up  at  Elm  Cot- 
tage in  the  corner. 

'•  Home  at  last,"  cried  Pete,  and  he  leapt  to  the  ground. 

A  dog  began  to  bark  inside  the  house.  "  D'ye  hear  him  ? " 
said  Pete.     "  That's  the  master  in  charge." 

The  porch  door  was  opened,  and  a  comfortable-looking 
woman  in  a  widow's  cap  came  out  with  a  lighted  candle 
shaded  by  her  hand. 

"  And  this  is  your  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Gorry,"  said  Pete. 

Kate  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  had  been  fixed  in  a  rigid 
stare  on  the  hind-quarters  of  the  horse,  which  were  steaming 
in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  Pete  lifted  her  down  as  he  had 
lifted  her  up.  Then  Mrs.  Gorry  took  her  by  the  hand,  and 
saying,  "Mind  the  step,  ma'am — this  way,  ma'am,"  led  her 
through  the  gate  and  along  the  garden  path,  and  up  to  the 
porch.  The  porch  opened  on  a  square  hall,  furnished  as  a  sit- 
ting-room. A  fire  was  burning,  a  lamp  was  lit,  the  table  was 
laid  for  supper,  and  the  place  was  warm  and  cosy. 

"  There!  What  d'ye  say  to  that  ?"  cried  Pete,  coming  be- 
hind with  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

Kate  looked  around  ;  she  did  not  speak  ;  her  eyes  began 
to  fill. 

"  Isn't  it  fit  for  a  Dempster's  lady  ? "  said  Pete,  sweeping 
the  whip-handle  round  the  I'oom  like  a  showman. 

Kate  could  bear  no  more.  She  sank  into  a  chair  and  burst 
into  a  fit  of  tears.     Pete's  glowing  face  dropped  in  an  instant. 

"Dear  heart  alive,  darling,  what  is  it?"  he  said.  "My 
poor  girl,  what's  troubling  you  at  all  ?  Tell  me,  now — tell 
me,  bogh,  tell  me." 

''It's  nothing,  Pete,  nothing.  Don't  ask  me,"  said  Kate. 
But  still  she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Pete  stood  a  moment  by  her  side,  smoothing  her  arm  with 
his  hand.  Then  he  said,  with  a  crack  and  a  quaver  in  his 
great  voice.  "It  is  hard  for  a  girl,  I  know  that,  to  lave  father 
and  mother  and  every  one  and  everything  that's  been  sweet 


250  '^HE   MAXXMAX. 

and  dear  to  lier  since  she  was  a  child,  and  to  come  to  the  house 
of  her  husband  and  say,  '  The  past  has  been  very  good  to  me  ; 
but  still  and  for  all,  I'm  for  trusting  the  future  to  you."  It's 
hard,  darling  ;  I  know  it's  hard." 

"  Oh,  leave  me  I  leave  me  I "  cried  Kate,  still  weeping. 

Pete  brushed  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes,  and  said,  "  Take  her 
upstairs,  Mrs.  Gorry,  while  I'm  putting  up  the  mare  at  the 
'Saddle.'" 

Then  he  whistled  to  the  dog,  which  had  been  watching  him 
from  the  hearthrug,  and  went  out  of  the  house.  The  handle 
of  the  whip  dragged  after  him  along  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Gorry,  full  of  trouble,  took  Kate  to  her  room.  Would 
she  not  eat  her  supper  ?  Then  salts  were  good  for  headache — 
should  she  bring  a  bottle  from  her  box  ?  After  many  fruitless 
inquiries  and  nervous  protestations,  the  good  soul  bade  Kate 
good-night  and  left  her. 

Being  alone,  Kate  broke  into  yet  wilder  paroxysms  of 
weeping.  The  storm-cloud  which  had  been  gathering  had 
burst  at  last.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  weight  of  the  day  had 
been  deferred  until  then.  The  piled-up  hopes  of  weeks  had 
waited  for  that  hour,  to  be  cast  down  in  the  sight  of  her  own 
eyes.  It  was  all  over.  The  fight  vrith  Fate  was  done,  and 
the  frantic  merriment  with  which  she  had  kept  down  her 
sense  of  the  place  where  the  blind  struggle  had  left  her  made 
the  sick  recoil  more  bitter. 

She  thought  of  Philip,  and  her  trouble  began  to  moderate. 
Somewhere  out  of  the  uncrushed  part  of  her  womanhood  there 
came  one  flicker  of  womanly  pride  to  comfort  her.  She  saw 
Philip  at  last  from  the  point  of  revenge.  lie  loved  her  ;  he 
would  never  cease  to  love  her.  Do  what  he  might  to  banish 
the  thought  of  her,  she  would  be  with  him  always  ;  the  more 
surely  with  him,  the  more  reproachfully  and  unattainably, 
because  she  would  be  the  wife  of  another  man.  If  he  could 
put  her  away  from  him  in  the  daytime,  and  in  the  presence  of 
those  worldly  aims  for  whicli  he  had  sacrificed  her,  when 
night  came  he  would  be  able  to  put  her  away  no  more.  He 
would  never  sleep  but  he  would  see  her.  In  every  dream  he 
would  stretch  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  she  would  not  be  there, 
and  he  would  awake  with  sobs  and  in  torment.  There  was  a 
real  joy  in  this  thought,  althougli  it  tore  her  heart  so  terribly. 

She  got  strength   from  the  cruel  comforting,  and  Mrs. 


MAX   AND   Woman.  SJ51 

Gorry  in  the  room  below,  listening  intently,  heard  her  crying 
cease.  With  her  face  still  shut  in  both  lier  hands,  she  was 
telling  herself  that  she  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  witli  ; 
that  she  could  not  have  acted  differently;  that  slje  luuf  not 
really  made  this  marriage  ;  that  she  had  only  submitted  to  it, 
being  swept  along  by  the  pitiless  tide,  which  was  her  father, 
and  Pete,  and  everybody.  She  was  telling  herself,  too,  that, 
after  all,  she  had  done  well.  Here  she  lay  in  close  harbour 
from  the  fierce  storm  which  had  threatened  her.  She  was 
safe,  she  was  at  peace. 

The  room  lay  still.  The  night  was  very  quiet  within  those 
walls.  Kate  drew  down  her  hands  and  looked  about  her.  The 
fire  was  burning  gently,  and  warming  her  foot  on  the  sheep- 
skin rug  that  lay  in  front  of  it.  A  lamp  burned  low  on  a 
table  behind  her  chair.  At  one  side  there  was  a  wardrobe  of 
the  shape  of  an  old  press,  but  with  a  tall  mirror  in  the  door  ; 
on  the  other  side  there  was  the  bed,  with  the  pink  curtains 
hanging  like  a  tent.  The  place  had  a  strange  look  of  famil- 
iarity. It  seemed  as  if  she  had  known  it  all  her  life.  She 
rose  to  look  around,  and  then  the  inner  sense  leapt  to  the  outer 
vision,  and  she  saw  how  it  was.  The  room  was  a  reproduction 
of  her  own  bedroom  at  home,  only  newer  and  more  luxurious. 
It  was  almost  as  if  some  ghost  of  herself  had  been  there  while 
she  slept— as  if  her  own  hand  had  done  everything  in  a  dream 
of  her  girlhood  wherein  common  things  had  become  grand. 

Kate's  eyes  began  to  fill  afresh,  and  she  turned  to  take  ofiP 
her  cloak.  As  she  did  so,  she  saw  something  on  the  dressing- 
table  with  a  label  attached  to  it.  She  took  it  up.  It  was  a 
little  mirror,  a  handglass  like  her  own  old  one,  only  framed 
in  ivory,  and  the  writing  on  the  label  ran — 

Insted  of  The  one  that  is  hnik  with  fond  Luv  to  Kirry. 

peat. 

Her  heart  was  now  beating  furiously.  A  flood  of  feeling 
had  rushed  over  her.  She  dropped  the  glass  as  if  it  stung  her 
fingers.  With  both  liands  she  covered  her  face.  Every  tiling 
in  the  room  seemed  to  be  accusing  her.  Hitherto  she  had 
thought  only  of  Philip.  Now  for  the  first  time  she  thought 
of  Pete. 

She  had  wronged  him — deeply,  awfully,  beyond  atonement 
or  hope  of  forgiveness.  He  loved  her  ;  he  had  married  her  ; 
17 


252  •  THE   MAXXMAN. 

he  had  brought  her  to  his  home,  to  this  harbour  of  safety,  and 
she  had  deceived  and  betrayed  him — she  had  suffered  herself 
to  be  married  to  him  while  still  loving  another  man. 

'A  sudden  faintness  seized  her.  She  grew  dizzy  and  almost 
fell.  A  more  terrible  memory  had  come  behind.  The  thought 
was  like  ravens  flapping  their  black  wings  on  her  brain.  She 
felt  her  temples  beating  against  her  hands.  They  seemed  to 
be  sucking  the  life  out  of  her  heart. 

Just  then  the  voice  of  Pete  came  beating  up  the  echoes  be- 
tween the  house  and  the  chapel  beyond  the  garden — 

"  Little  red  bird  of  the  black  turf  ground, 
Where  did  you  sleep  Last  night  ?  " 

She  heard  him  open  the  garden  gate,  clash  it  back,  come 
up  the  path  with  an  eager  step,  shut  the  door  of  the  house  and 
chain  it  on  the  inside.  Then  she  heard  his  deep  voice  speak- 
ing below. 

"  Better  now,  Mrs.  Gorry  ? " 

"Aw,  better,  sir,  yes,  and  quiet  enough  this  ten  minutes." 

"  Give  her  time,  the  boglil     Be  aisy  with  the  like,  be  aisy." 

Presently  she  heard  him  send  off  Mrs.  Gorry  for  the  night, 
saying  he  should  want  no  supper,  and  should  be  going  to  bed 
soon.  Then  the  house  became  quiet,  and  the  smell  of  tobacco 
smoke  came  floating  up  the  stairs. 

Kate's  hot  breath  on  her  hands  grew  damp  against  her  face. 
She  felt  herself  swooning,  and  she  caught  hold  of  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  she  thought.  "  He  must  not  come.  I  will 
go  down  to  him  and  say,  '  Pete,  forgive  me,  I  am  really  the 
wife  of  another.' " 

Then  she  would  tell  him  everything.  Yes,  she  would  con- 
fess all  now.  Oh,  she  would  not  be  afraid.  His  love  was 
great.     He  would  do  what  she  wished. 

She  made  one  step  towards  the  door,  and  was  pulled  up  as 
by  a  curb.  Pete  would  say,  "  Do  you  mean  that  you  have 
been  using  me  as  a  cloak  ?  Do  you  ask  me  to  live  in  this 
house,  side  by  side  w^ith  you,  and  let  no  one  suspect  that  we 
are  apart  ?  Then  why  did  you  not  ask  me  yesterday  ?  Why 
do  you  ask  me  to-day,  when  it  is  too  late  to  choose  ? " 

No,  she  could  not  confess.  If  confession  had  been  diffi- 
cult yesterday,  it  was  a  thousand  times  more  difficult  to-day, 


MAN   AND   WOMAN.  253 

and  it  would  be  a  thousand  thousand  times  more  difTicult  to- 
moiTow. 

Kate  caught  up  the  cloak  she  had  thrown  aside.  She  must 
go  away.  Anywhere,  anywhere,  no  matter  where.  That  was 
the  one  thing  left  to  her— the  only  escape  from  the  wild  tangle 
of  dread  and  pain.  Pete  was  in  the  hall ;  there  nmst  be  a  way 
out  at  the  back;  she  would  find  it. 

She  lowered  the  lamp,  and  turned  the  handle  of  the  door. 
Then  she  saw  a  light  moving  ou  the  landing,  and  heard  a  soft 
step  on  the  stairs.  It  was  Pete,  with  a  candle,  coming  up  in 
his  stockinged  feet.  He  stopped  midway,  as  if  he  heard  the 
click  of  the  latch,  and  then  went  noiselessly  down  again. 

Kate  closed  the  door.  She  would  not  go.  If  she  left  the 
house  that  night  she  would  cover  Pete  with  suspicion  and 
tlisgrace.  The  true  secret  would  never  be  known;  tlie  real 
offender  would  never  suffer;  but  the  finger  of  scorn  would  be 
raised  at  the  one  man  wiio  had  sheltered  and  shielded  her, 
and  he  would  die  of  humiliation  and  blind  self-reproach. 

This  reflection  restrained  her  for  the  moment,  and  when 
the  stre.ss  of  it  was  spent  she  was  mastered  by  a  fear  that  was 
far  more  terrible.  For  good  or  for  ill  she  was  now  married  to 
Pete,  and  he  had  the  rights  of  a  husband.  He  had  a  right  to 
come  to  her,  and  he  icould  come.  It  was  inevitable;  it  had 
to  be.  No  boy  or  girl  love  now,  no  wooing,  no  dallying,  no 
denying,  but  a  grim  reality  of  life— a  reality  that  comes  to 
every  woman  who  is  married  to  a  man.  She  was  married  to 
Pete.  In  the  eye  of  the  world,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  she  was 
his,  and  to  fly  from  him  was  impossible. 

She  must  remain.  God  himself  had  willed  it.  As  for  the 
shame  of  her  former  relation  to  Philip,  it  was  her  own  secret. 
God  alone  knew  of  it,  and  He  would  keep  it  safe.  It  was  the 
dark  chamber  of  her  heart  which  God  only  could  unlock. 
He  would  never  unlock  it  until  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and 
then  Philip  w^ould  be  standing  by  her  side,  and  she  would  cast 
it  back  upon  him,  and  say,  "  His,  not  mine,  O  God,"  and  the 
Great  Judge  of  all  would  judge  between  them. 

But  she  began  to  cry  again,  like  a  child  in  the  dark.  As 
she  threw  off  her  cloak  a  second  time,  her  dress  crinkled,  and 
she  looked  down  at  it  and  remembered  that  it  was  her  wedding- 
dress.  Then  she  looked  around  at  the  room,  and  remembei*ed 
that  it  was  her  wedding  chamber.     She  remembered  how  she 


254  THE   MANXMAN. 

had  dreamt  of  coming  in  lu  r  bridal  dress  to  her  bridal  room — 
proud,  afraid,  tingling  with  love,  blushing  with  joy,  whisper- 
ing to  herself,  "This  is  for  me — and  this — and  this.  He  has 
given  it,  for  he  loves  me  and  I  love  him,  and  he  is  mine  and  I 
am  his,  and  he  is  my  love  and  my  lord,  and  he  is  coming  to 
me " 

There  was  a  gentle  knocking  at  the  door.  It  made  her  flesh 
creep.  The  knock  came  again.  It  went  shrieking  tlirough  and 
through  her. 

"  Kirry,"  whispered  a  voice  from  without. 

She  did  not  stir. 

"It's  only  Pete." 

She  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then,  half  nervously, 
half  jovially,  half  in  laughter,  half  with  emotion  as  if  the 
heart  outside  was  palpitating,  the  voice  came  again,  '*  I'm  com- 
ing in,  darling!" 


PAKT  IV. 
MAN  AND    WIFE. 


I. 

Next  morning  Kate  said  to  herself,  ''My  life  must  begin 
again  from  to-day."  She  had  a  secret  that  Pete  did  not  share. 
But  she  was  not  the  first  woman  who  had  kept  something 
from  lier  husband.  When  people  had  seci*ets  which  it  would 
hurt  others  to  reveal,  they  ought  to  keep  them  close.  Honour 
demanded  that. she  sliould  be  as  firm  as  a  rock  in  blotting 
Philip  from  her  soul.  Remembering  the  promise  which  Pete 
had  demanded  of  Philip  at  the  wedding  to  make  their  house 
his  home  in  Ramsey,  and  seeing  that  Philip  must  come,  if 
only  to  save  appearances,  she  asked  herself  if  .she  ought  to 
prevent  him.  But  no  I  She  resolved  to  conquer  the  passion 
that  made  his  presence  a  danger.  There  was  no  safety  in 
separation.  In  her  relation  to  Philip  she  was  like  the  convict 
who  is  beginning  his  life  again — the  only  place  where  he  can 
build  up  a  sure  career  is  precisely  there  where  his  crime  is 
known.  "  Let  Philip  come,"  she  thought.  She  made  his 
room  ready. 

She  was  married.  It  was  her  duty  to  be  a  good  wife. 
Pete  loved  her — his  love  would  make  it  easy.  They  were  sit- 
ting at  breakfavSt  in  the  hall  parlour,  and  she  said,  "I  should 
like  to  be  my  own  hou.sekeeper,  Pete." 

''And  right,  too."  said  Pete.  *'  Be  your  own  woman,  dai- 
ling— not  your  woman's  woman — and  have  Mrs.  Gorry  for 
your  housemaid." 

To  turn  her  niind  from  evil  thoughts,  she  set  to  work  im- 
mediately, and  busied  herself  with  little  duties,  little  econo- 
mies, little  cares,  little  troubles.  But  the  virtues  of  house- 
keeping were  just  those  for  which  she  had  not  prepared  herself. 
Her  first  leg  of  mutton  was  roasted  d^wn  to  the  proportions 


256  THE  MANXMAN. 

of  a  frizzled  shank,  and  her  first  pudding  was  baked  to  the 
colour  and  consistency  of  a  badly  burnt  brick.  She  did  not 
mend  rapidly  as  a  cook,  but  Pete  ate  of  all  that  his  faultless 
teeth  could  grind  through,  and  laid  the  blame  on  his  appetite 
when  his  digestion  failed. 

She  strove  by  other  industries  to  keep  alive  a  sense  of  her 
duty  as  a  wife.  Buying  rolls  of  paper  at  the  paperhanger's,  she 
set  about  papering  every  closet  in  the  house.  The  patterns  did 
not  join  and  the  paste  did  not  adhere.  She  initialled  in 
worsted  the  new  blankets  sent  by  Grannie,  with  a  P  and  a  Q 
and  a  K  intertwined.  Than  she  overhauled  the  linen ;  turned 
out  every  room  twice  a  week ;  painted  every  available  wooden 
fixture  with  paint  which  would  not  dry  because  she  had  mixed 
it  herself  to  save  a  sixpence  a  stone  and  forgotten  the  turpen- 
tine. Pete  lield  up  his  hands  in  admiration  at  all  her  failures. 
She  had  thought  it  would  be  easy  to  be  a  good  wife  to  a  good 
husband.  It  was  hard — hard  for  any  one,  hardest  of  all  for 
her.  There  are  the  ruins  of  a  happy  woman  in  the  bosom  of 
every  over-indulged  wife. 

She  could  not  keep  to  anything  long,  but  every  night  for  a 
week  she  gave  Pete  lessons  in  reading,  writing,  and  arithmet- 
ic. His  reading  was  laboi'ious,  his  spelling  was  eccentric,  his 
figuring  he  did  on  the  tips  of  his  heavy  fingers,  and  his  writ- 
ing he  executed  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  his  ponder- 
ous thumb  down  on  the  pen  nib. 

''  What  letter  is  that,  Pete  ? "  she  said,  pointing  with  her 
knitting  needle  to  the  page  of  a  book  of  poems  before  them. 

Pete  looked  up  in  astonishment.  ''  Is  it  me  you're  asking, 
Kitty  ?    If  you  don't  know,  /don't  know.'' 

"That's  a  capital  M,  Pete." 

"  Is  it,  now  ?  "  said  Pete,  looking  at  the  letter  with  a  search- 
ing eye.  "  Goodness  me,  the  straight  it's  like  the  gate  of  the 
long  meadow." 

"And  that's  a  capital  A." 

"  Sakes  alive,  the  straight  it's  like  the  coupling  of  the  cart- 
house." 

"And  that's  a  B." 

"  Goagh  bless  me,  d'ye  say  so  ?  But  the  straight  it's  like 
the  hoof  of  a  bull,  though." 

"  And  M  A  B  spells  Mab— Queen  Mab,"  said  Kate,  going  on 
with  her  knittins:. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  257 

Pete  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  wide  open.  "  I  Riij)p<)se, 
now,''  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  pride,  "1  suppose  you're  knowing 
all  the  big"  spells  yourself.  Kitty  ?" 

"Not  all.  Sometimes  I  have  to  look  in  the  dictionary," 
said  Kate. 

She  showed  him  the  book  and  explained  its  uses. 

"  And  is  it  taichiug  you  to  spell  every  word,  Kitty  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Every  ordinary  word,"  said  Kate. 

"  My  gough  I "  said  Pete,  touching  the  book  with  awe. 

Next  day  he  pored  over  the  dictionary  for  an  hour,  but 
when  he  raised  his  face  it  wore  a  look  of  scepticism  and  scorn. 
''This  spelling-book  isn't  taiching  you  nothing,  darling,"  he 
said. 

''Isn't  it.  Pete?" 

"  No,  nothing,"  said  Pete.  ""  Here  I've  been  looking  for  an 
ordinary  word — a  very  ordinary  word— and  it  isn't  in." 

"What  word  is  it  ? "  said  Kate,  leaning  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Xore,"  said  Pete.  "  See,"  pointing  his  big  forelinger, 
'*  that's  where  it  ought  to  be,  and  where  is  it  ? " 

''  But  love  begins  Zo,''  said  Kate,  ''  and  you're  looking  at  lu. 
Here  it  is— Zoi-f^." 

Pete  gave  a  prolonged  whistle,  then  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
looked  slowly  up  and  said,  "  So  you  must  first  know  how  the 
word  begins  ;  is  that  it,  Kitty?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Kate. 

"  Then  it's  you  that's  taiching  the  spelling-book,  darling  ; 
so  we'll  put  it  back  on  the  shelf." 

For  a  fortnight  Kate  read  and  replied  to  Pete's  correspond- 
ence. It  was  plentiful  and  various.  Letters  from  heirs  to 
lost  fortunes  offering  shares  in  return  for  money  to  buy  them 
out  of  Chancery  ;  from  promoters  of  companies  proposing 
dancing  palaces  to  meet  the  needs  of  English  visitors  ;  from 
parsons  begging  subscriptions  to  new  organs  ;  from  fashion- 
able ladies  asking  Pete  to  open  bazaars  ;  from  preachers  in- 
viting him  to  anniversary  tea-meetings,  and  saying  Methodism 
was  proud  of  him.  If  anybody  wanted  money,  he  kissed  tlie 
Blarney  Stone  and  applied  to  Pete,  Kate  stood  between  him 
and  the  wo]*st  of  the  leeches.  The  l^st  of  them  he  contrived 
to  deal  with  himself,  secretly  and  surreptitiously.  Sometimes 
there  came  acknowledgments  of  charities  of  which  Kate  knew 


258  THE  MANXMAN. 

nothing.  Then  he  would  shuffle  them  away  and  she  would 
try  not  to  see  them.  ''If  I  stop  him  altogether,  I  will  spoil 
him,*'  she  thought. 

One  day  the  post  brought  a  large  envelope  with  a  great 
seal  at  the  back  of  it,  and  Kate  drew^  out  a  parchment  deed  and 
began  to  read  the  indorsement — "' Memorandum  of  loan  to 
Caesar  Cre '  " 

"  That's  nothing,"  said  Pete,  snatching  the  document  and 
stuffing  it  into  his  jacket-pocket. 

Kate  lifted  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  pain  and  shame  and 
humiliation,  and  that  was  the  end  of  her  secretaryship. 


II. 

A  MONTH  after  their  marriage  a  man  came  through  the 
gate  with  the  air  of  one  who  w  as  doing  a  degrading  thing. 
The  dog,  which  had  been  spread  out  lazily  in  the  sun  before 
the  porch,  leapt  up  and  barked  furiously. 

'*  Who's  this  coming  up  the  path  with  his  eyes  all  round 
him  like  a  scallop  ? "  said  Pete. 

Kate  looked.  ''  It's  Ross  Christian,"  she  said,  with  a  catch 
in  her  breathing. 

Ross  came  up,  and  Pete  met  him  at  the  door.  His  face  w^as 
puffy  and  pale,  his  speech  was  soft  and  lisping,  j'et  there  lurked 
about  the  man  an  air  of  levity  and  irony. 

"  Your  dog  doesn't  easily  make  friends,  Peter,"  he  said, 

"He's  like  his  master,  sir  ;  it's  against  the  principles  of  his 
life,''  said  Pete. 

Ross  laughed  a  little.  "  Wants  to  be  approached  with  con- 
sideration, does  he,  Capt'n  ? " 

"  You  see,  he's  lived  such  a  long  time  in  the  world  and  seen 
such  a  dale,"  said  Pete. 

Ross  looked  up  sharply  and  said  in  another  tone,  ''I've  just 
dropped  in  to  congratulate  you  on  your  return  home  in  safety 
and  health  and  prosperity,  Mr.  Quilliam." 

'•  You're  welcome,  sir,"  said  Pete. 

Pete  led  the  way  indoorg.  Ross  followed,  bowed  distantly 
to  Kate,  who  was  unpicking  a  dress,  and  took  a  chair. 

"  I  must  not  conceal  from  you,  however,  that  I  have  an- 


MAN  AND  WIFE.  259 

other  object — in  fact,  a  private  matter/'  said  Ross,  p^lancing^  at 
Kate. 

The  dress  rustled  in  Kate's  fingei's,  her  scissors  dropped  on 
to  the  table,  and  she  rose  to  go. 

Pete  raised  his  hand.  "  My  wife  knows  all  my  business," 
he  said. 

Ross  gave  out  another  little  chirp  of  laughter.  ''You'll 
remember  what  they  say  of  a  secret,  Captain — too  big  for  one, 
right  for  two,  tight  for  three." 

"A  man  and  his  wife  are  one,  sir — so  that's  two  alto- 
gether," said  Pete. 

Kate  took  up  the  scissors  and  went  on  with  her  work  un- 
easily. Ross  twisted  on  his  seat  and  said,  ''Well,  I  feel  I 
must  tell  you,  Peter.'' 

"  Quilliam,  sir,"  said  Pete,  charging  a  pipe  ;  but  Ross  pre- 
tended not  to  hear. 

"  Only  natural,  perhaps,  for  it — in  fact,  it's  about  our 
father." 

'•  Tongue  with  me,  tongue  with  thee,"  thought  Pete,  light- 
ing up. 

"  Five  years  ago  he  made  me  an  allowance,  and  sent  me  up 
to  London  to  study  law.  He  believes  I've  been  called  to  the 
English  bar,  and,  in  view  of  this  vacant  Deemstership,  he 
wants  me  admitted  to  the  Manx  one." 

Pete's  pipe  stopped  in  its  puffing.     "Well  ?" 

"Tliat's  impossible,"  said  Ross. 

"  Things  haven't  come  with  you,  eh  ? " 

''  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Captain,  on  first  going  up  I  fell  into 
extravagant  company.  I  thought  my  friends  were  rich  men, 
and  I  was  never  a  niggard.  There  was  Monty,  the  patron  of 
the  Fancy" — the  scissors  in  Kate's  hand  clicked  and  stopped — 
and  Ross  blurted  out,  "  In  fact,  I've  not  been  called,  and  I've 
never  studied  at  all." 

Ross  squirmed  in  his  chair,  glancing  under  his  brows  at 
Kate.  Pete  leaned  forward  and  puffed  up  the  chimney  w^ith- 
out  speaking. 

"You  see  I  speak  freely.  Peter— something  compels  me. 
Well,  if  a  man  can't  reveal  his  little  failings  to  his  own 
brother,  Peter " 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  brothers,"  said  Pete.  "What  am  I 
to  do  for  you  ?  " 


260  THE  MAXXMAN. 

"Lend  me  enongrh  to  help  me  to  do  what  our  father  thinks 
I've  done  already,"  said  Ross,  and  then  he  added,  hastily,  ''  Oh, 
I'll  give  you  my  note  of  hand  for  it.'' 

"  They're  telling  me,  sir,"  said  Pete,  "  your  notes  of  hand 
are  as  cheap  as  cowries." 

"  Some  one  has  belied  me  to  you.  Captain.  But  for  our 
father's  sake — he  has  set  his  heart  on  this  Deemstership — there 
may  still  be  time  for  it." 

'•  Yes,"  said  Pete,  striking  his  open  hand  on  the  table,  "  and 
better  men  to  fill  it." 

Ross  glanced  at  Kate,  and  a  smile  that  was  half  a  sneer 
crossed  his  evil  face.  ''  How  nice,"  he  said,  "  when  the  great 
friends  of  ihe  wife  are  also  the  great  friends  of  the  husband.'' 

"  Just  so,"  said  Pete,  and  then  Ross  laughed  a  little,  and 
the  clicking  of  Kate's  scissors  stopped  again.  "  As  to  you, 
sir,"  said  Pete,  rising,  "if  it's  no  disrespect,  you're  like  the 
cormorant  that  chokes  itself  swallowing  its  fish  head- ways  up. 
The  gills  are  sticking  in  your  gizzard,  sir,  only,"  touching 
Ross's  shoulder  w4th  something  between  a  pat  and  push,  "you 
shouldn't  be  coming  to  your  father's  son  to  help  you  to  ram 
it  down." 

As  Ross  went  out  Caesar  came  in.  "  That  wastrel's  been 
wanting  something,"  said  Caesar, 

"  The  tide's  down  on  him,"  said  Pete. 

"  Always  was,  and  always  will  be.  He  was  born  at  low 
water,  and  he'll  die  on  the  rocks.  Borrowing  money,  eh  ? " 
said  Caesar,  with  a  searching  glance. 

"  Trying  to,"  said  Pete  indifferently. 

"Then  lend  it,  sir,"  said  Caesar  promptly.  "He's  not  to 
trust,  but  lend  it  on  his  heirship.  Or  lend  it  the  ould  man  at 
mortgage  on  Ballawhaine.  He's  the  besom  of  fire — it'll  come 
to  you,  sir,  at  the  father's  death,  and  who  has  more  right  ? " 

The  shank  of  Pete's  pipe  came  down  from  his  mouth  as  he 
sat  for  some  moments  beating  out  the  ash  on  the  jockey  bar. 
"Something  in  that,  though,"  he  said  mechanically.  "But 
there's  another  has  first  claim  for  all.  He'd  be  having  the 
place  now  if  every  one  had  his  own.  I  must  be  thinking  of 
it— I  must  be  thinking  of  it." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  2lU 

III. 

Philip  had  left  the  island  on  the  morning  after  the  niar- 
riag:e.  He  had  gone  abroad,  and  when  they  heard  from  him 
first  he  was  at  Cairo.  The  voyage  out  had  done  him  good — 
the  long,  steady  nights  going  down  the  Mediterranean— walk- 
ing the  deck  alone — the  soft  air — the  far-oif  lights — thought 
he  was  feeling  better — calmer  anyway.  He  hoped  tbcy  were 
settled  in  their  new  home,  and  well — and  happy.  Kate  had 
to  read  the  letter  aloud.  It  w^as  like  a  throb  of  Philip's  heait 
made  faint,  feeble,  and  hardly  to  be  felt  by  the  great  distance. 
Then  she  had  to  reply  to  it  on  behalf  of  Pete. 

"  Tell  him  to  be  quick  and  come  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt 
and  the  house  of  bondage,"  said  Pete.  "Say  there's  no  man- 
ner of  sense  of  a  handsome  young  man  living  in  a  country 
where  there  isn't  a  pretty  face  to  be  seen  on  the  sunny  side  of 
a  blanket.  Write  that  Kirry  joins  with  her  love  and  best 
respects  and  she's  busy  whitewashing,  and  he'd  better  have  no 
truck  with  Pharaoh's  daughters." 

The  next  time  they  heard  from  Philip  he  was  at  Rome, 
lie  had  sutTered  from  sleeplessness,  but  was  not  otherwise  un- 
well. Living  in  that  city  was  like  an  existence  after  death — 
all  the  real  life  was  behind  you.  But  it  was  not  unpleasant 
to  walk  under  the  big  moon  amid  the  w  recks  of  the  past.  He 
congratulated  Mrs.  Quilliam  on  her  active  occupation— work 
was  the  same  as  suffering — it  was  strength  and  power.  Kate 
had  to  read  this  letter  also.  It  was  like  a  sob  coming  over 
the  sea, 

''Give  him  a  merry  touch  to  keep  up  iiis  pecker,"  said 
Pete.  "  Tell  him  the  Romans  are  ter'ble  jealous  chaps,  and,  if 
he  gets  into  a  public  house  for  a  cup  of  tay,  he's  to  mind 
and  not  take  the  girls  on  his  knee— the  Romans  don't  like 
it." 

The  last  time  they  heard  from  Philip  he  was  in  London. 
His  old  pain  had  given  way;  he  thought  he  was  nearly  well 
again,  but  he  had  come  through  a  sharp  fire.  The  Governor 
had  been  very  good — kept  open  the  Deemstership  by  some 
means — also  surrounded  him  with  London  friends— he  was 
out  every  night.  Nevertheless,  an  unseen  force  was  drawing 
him  home — they  might  see  him  soon,  or  it  might  he  later;  he 
had  been  six  months  away,  but  he  felt  that  it  had  not  been 


262  THE  MANXMAN. 

all  waste  and  interruption — he  would  return  \yith  a  new 
sustaining  power. 

This  letter  could  not  be  answered,  for  it  bore  no  address. 
It  came  by  the  night-mail  with  the  same  day's  steamer  from 
England.  Two  hours  later  Mrs.  Gorry  ran  in  from  an  errand 
to  the  town  saying — 

''  I  believe  in  my  heart  I  saw  Mr.  Philip  Christian  going 
by  on  the  road." 

•'  When  ?  "  said  Pete. 

"  This  minute,"  she  answered. 

'•  Chut  I  woman,"  said  Pete ;  "  the  man's  in  London.  Look, 
here's  his  letter  " — running  his  forefinger  along  the  headline 
— '•  London,  January  21st— that's  yesterday.     See  I  " 

Mrs.  Gorry  was  perplexed.  But  the  next  night  she  was 
out  at  the  same  hour  on  the  same  errand,  and  caaie  flying  into 
the  house  with  a  scared  look,  making  the  same  announcement. 

"  See  for  yourself,  then,"  she  cried,  *'  he's  going  up  the  lane 
by  the  garden." 

"  Nonsense  !  it's  browning  you're  ateing  with  your  barley," 
said  Pete;  and  then  to  Kate,  behind  his  hand,  he  whispered, 
"  Whisht  I  It's  sights  she's  seeing,  poor  thing — and  no  wonder, 
with  her  husband  laving  her  so  lately." 

But  the  third  night  also  Mrs.  Gorry  returned  from  a  simi- 
lar errand,  at  the  same  hour,  with  the  same  statement. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  she  panted.  She  was  now  in  terror.  An 
idea  of  the  supernatural  had  taken  hold  of  her. 

''The  woman  manes  it,"  said  Pete,  and  he  began  to  cross- 
question  her.  How  was  Mr.  Christian  dressed  ?  She  hadn't 
noticed  that  night,  but  the  first  night  he  had  worn  a  coat  like 
an  old  Manx  cape.  Which  way  was  he  going  ?  She  couldn't 
be  certain  which  way  to-night,  but  the  night  before  he  had 
gone  up  the  lane  between  the  chapel  and  the  garden.  Had  she 
seen  his  face  at  all  ?  The  first  time  she  had  seen  it,  and  it  was 
very  thin  and  pale. 

"  Oh,  I  vrouldn't  deceavo  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Gorry,  and  she 
fell  to  crj'ing. 

"  Gough  bless  me,  but  this  is  mortal  strange,  though,"  said 
Pete. 

''  What  time  was  it  exactly,  Jane  ?"  asked  Kate. 

"  On  the  minute  of  ten  every  night,"  answered  Mrs. 
Gorrv. 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  2r,3 

"  Is  there  any  ditforeiice  in  time,  now/'  said  Pete,  "  between 
the  Isle  of  Man  and  London,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,''  said  Kate. 

Pete  scratched  his  head.  "  T  must  be  putting*  a  sight  up  on 
Black  Tom.  A  dirty  old  trouss,  God  forgive  me,  if  lie  is  my 
grandfather,  but  he  knows  the  Manx  yarns  about  I'ight.  If  it 
had  been  Midsunmier  day  now,  and  Philip  had  been  in  bed 
somewhere,  it  might  have  been  his  spirit  coming  home  while 
lie  was  sleeping  to  where  his  heart  is— they're  telling  of  the 
like,  anyway." 

Kate  read  the  mystery  after  her  own  manner,  and  on  the 
following  night,  at  the  approach  of  ten  o'clock,  she  went  into 
the  parlour  of  the  hall,  whence  a  window  looked  out  on  to  the 
road.  The  day  had  been  dull  and  the  night  was  misty.  A 
heavy  white  hand  seemed  to  have  come  down  on  to  the  face 
of  sea  and  land.  Everything  lay  still  and  dead  and  ghostly. 
Kate  was  in  the  dark  room,  trembling,  but  not  with  fear. 
Presently  a  form  that  was  like  a  shadow  passed  under  a  lamp 
that  glimmered  opposite.  She  could  see  only  the  outlines  of 
a  Spanish  cape.  But  she  listened  for  the  footsteps,  and  she 
knew  them.  They  came  on  and  paused,  came  up  and  j)aused 
again,  and  then  they  went  past  and  deadened  off  and  died  in 
the  dense  night-air. 

Kate's  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  when  she  came  back  to 
supper.  She  had  promised  herself  enjoyment  of  Philip's  suf- 
ferings. There  was  no  enjoyment,  but  only  a  cry  of  yearning 
from  the  deep  place  where  love  calls  to  love.  She  tried  afresh 
to  make  the  thought  of  Philip  sink  to  the  lowest  depth  of  her 
being.  It  was  hard — it  was  impossible  ;  Pete  was  for  ever 
strengthening  the  recollection  of  him — of  his  ways,  his  look, 
his  voice,  his  laugh.  What  he  said  was  only  the  echo  of  her 
own  thoughts;  but  it  was  pain  and  torment,  nevertheless. 
She  felt  like  crying,  "  Let  me  alone — let  me  alone  I  " 

People  in  the  town  began  to  talk  of  Mrs.  Gorry's  mysteri- 
ous stories. 

"Philip  will  be  forced  to  come  now,"  thought  Kate;  and 
he  came.  Kate  was  alone.  It  was  afternoon ;  dinner  was 
over,  the  hearth  was  swept,  the  fire  was  heaped  up,  and  the 
rug  was  down.  He  entered  the  porch  quietly,  tai)i)od  lightly 
at  the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  house.  He  hoped  she  was 
well.    She  answered  mechanically.    He  asked  after  Pete.    She 


2G4       -  THE  MAXXMAX. 

replied  vacantly  that  he  had  been  gone  since  morning-  on  some 
fishing  business  to  Peel.  It  was  a  commonplace  conversation 
— brief,  cold,  almost  trivial.  He  spoke  softl^^  and  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  swinging  his  soft  hat  against  his  leg.  She 
was  standing  by  the  fire,  with  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  her  head  half  aside,  looking  sideways  towards  his  feet :  but 
she  noticed  that  his  eyes  looked  larger  than  before,  and  that 
his  voice,  though  so  soft,  had  a  deeper  tone.  At  fii^t  she  did 
not  remember  to  ask  him  to  sit,  and  when  she  thought  of  it 
she  could  not  do  so.  The  poor  little  words  would  have  been  a 
formal  recognition  of  all  that  had  happened  so  terribly — that 
she  was  mistress  in  that  house,  and  the  wife  of  Pete. 


IV. 

They  were  standing  so,  in  a  silence  hard  to  break,  harder 
still  to  keep  uj),  when  Pete  himself  came  back,  like  a  rush  of 
wind,  and  welcomed  Philip  with  both  hands. 

"  Sit,  boy,  sit,"  he  cried ;  "  not  that  one — this  aisy  one. 
Mine  ?  Well,  if  it's  mJne,  it's  yours.  Not  had  dinner,  have 
you  ?  Neither  have  I.  Any  cold  mate  left,  Kitty  ?  No  ? 
Fry  us  a  chop,  then,  darling." 

Kate  had  recovered  herself  by  this  time,  and  she  went  out 
on  this  errand.  "While  she  was  away,  Pete  rattled  on  like  a 
mill-race — asked  about  the  travels,  laughed  about  the  girls, 
and  roared  about  Mrs.  Gorry  and  her  ghost  of  Philip, 

"Been  buying  a  Nickey  at  Peel  to-day,  Phil."  he  said; 
"good  little  boat — a  reg'lar  clipper.  Aw,  I'm  going  to  start 
on  the  herrings  myself  next  sayson.  sir,  and  what  for  shouldn't 
I  ?  Too  many  of  the  Manx  ones  are  giving  the  fishing  the  go- 
by. There's  life  in  the  ould  dog  yet,  though.  Would  be,  any- 
way, if  them  rusty  Kays  would  be  doing  anything  for  the  in- 
dustry. They're  building  piers  enough  for  the  trippers,  but 
never  a  breakwater  the  size  of  a  tooth-brush  for  the  fishermen. 
That's  reminding  me,  Phil— the  boys  are  at  me  to  get  you  to 
petition  the  Tynwald  Court  for  better  harbours.  They're  los- 
ing many  a  pound  by  not  getting  out  all  weathers.  But  if  the 
child  doesn't  cry,  the  mother  will  be  giving  it  no  breast.  So 
we  mane  to  squall  till  they  think  in  Douglas  we've  got  spav- 
ined wind  or  population  of  the  heart,  or  something.    The  men 


MAN  AND   Win-:.  2(\5 

are  lookinof  to  you,  Phil.  '  That's  the  boy  for  us/  says  they. 
'  He's  stood  our  friend  before,  and  he'll  do  it  ap^ain,'  tlicyVo 
savin,"." 

Philip  j)roniised  to  draw  up  the  petition,  and  then  Mrs. 
Gorry  eanie  in  and  laid  the  cdoth. 

Kate,  meanwhile,  had  been  tellinn:  herself  that  she  had  not 
done  well.  Where  was  the  satisfaction  she  had  promised 
herself  on  the  night  of  her  wedding-day,  when  .«^he  had  seen 
Philip  from  the  height  of  a  great  revenge,  if  she  allowed  him 
to  think  that  she  also  was  sutt'ering  ?  She  must  be  bright,  she 
must  be  gay,  she  must  seem  to  be  happy  and  in  love  with  her 
husband. 

She  returned  to  the  hall-parlour  with  a  smoking  dish,  and 
a  face  all  sunshine. 

''  I'm  afraid  they're  not  very  good,  dear,"  she  said. 

''  Chut  ! "  said  Pete  ;  "  we're  not  partic'lar.  Phil  and  I 
have  roughed  it  before  to-day.'' 

She  laughed  merrily,  and,  under  pretext  of  giving  orders, 
disappeared  again.  But  she  had  not  belied  the  food  she  bad 
set  on  the  table.  The  mutton  was  badly  fed,  badly  killed, 
badly  cut,  and,  above  all,  badly  cooked.  To  eat  it  was  an 
ordeal.  Philip  tried  hard  not  to  let  Pete  see  how  he  strug- 
gled, Pete  fought  valiantly  to  conceal  his  own  efforts.  The 
perspiration  began  to  break  out  on  their  foreheads.  Pete 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  some  wild  talk  to  glance  up  at  Philip. 
Philip  tore  away  with  knife  and  fork  and  answered  vaguely. 
Then  Pete  looked  searchingly  around,  rose  on  tiptoe,  went 
stealthily  to  the  kitchen  door,  came  back,  caught  up  a  piece  of 
yellow  paper  from  the  sideboard,  whipped  the  chops  into  it 
from  his  own  plate  and  then  from  Philip's,  and  crammed 
them  into  his  jacket  pocket. 

"  No  good  hurting  anybody's  feelings,"  said  he  ;  and  then 
Kate  reappeared  smiling. 

"Finished  already  ?"  she  .said  with  an  elevation  of  pitch. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Pete.  "Two  hungry  men,  Kate! 
You'd  rather  keep  us  a  week  than  a  fortnight,  eh  ?" 

Kate  stood  over  the  empty  disli  with  a  look  of  surprise. 
Pete  winked  furiously  at  Piiilij).  Philip's  eyes  wandered 
about  the  t;iblecloth. 

"  She  isn't  knowing  much  about  a  hungi-y  man's  appetite, 
is  she,  Phil?" 


2G0  "I'HE   MANXMAN. 

"  But,"  said  Kate — "  but,"  slie  stammered — '*  what's  become 
of  the  bones  ? " 

Pete  scratched  his  chin  through  his  beard.  "  The  bones  ? 
Oh,  the  bones  ?  Aw,  no,  we're  not  ateing  the  bones,  at  all.'" 
Then  with  a  rush,  as  his  eyes  kindled,  "  But  the  dog,  you  see 
— coorse  we  always  give  the  bones  to  the  dog — Dempsters 
dead  on  bones." 

Dempster  was  lying  at  the  moment  full  length  under  the 
table,  snoring  audibly.  Mrs.  Gorry  cleared  the  cloth,  and 
Kate  took  uf)  her  sewing  and  turned  towards  the  sideboard. 

"  Has  any  one  seen  my  pattern  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Pattern  ? "  said  Pete,  diving  into  his  jacket-pocket.  "  D'ye 
say  pattern,'  he  muttered,  rummaging  at  his  side.  ''  Is  this 
it  ? "  and  out  came  the  yellow  paper,  crumpled  and  greasy, 
which  had  gone  in  with  the  chops.  "  Bless  me,  the  stupid  a 
man  is  now — I  took  it  for  a  pipe-light." 

Kate's  smile  vanished,  and  she  fled  out  to  hide  her  face. 
Then  Pete  whispered  to  Philip,  "Let's  take  a  slieu  round  to  the 
'Plough.'" 

They  were  leaving  the  house  on  that  errand  when  Kate 
came  back  to  the  hall.  ''  Just  taking  a  lil  walk,  Kirry,"  said 
Pete.  ''  They're  telling  me  it's  good  wonderful  after  dinner 
for  a  wake  digestion  of  the  chest,"  and  he  coughed  repeatedly 
and  smote  his  resounding  breast. 

"  Wait  a  moment  and  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Kate. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Kate's  shopping  took  them  in 
the  direction  of  the  ''Plough."  Old  Mrs.  Beatty,  the  inn- 
keeper, was  at  the  door  as  they  passed,  and  when  she  saw  Pete 
approaching  on  the  inside  of  the  three,  she  said  aloud — mean- 
ing no  mischief — ''Your  bread  and  cheese  and  porter  are 
ready,  as  usual,  Capt'u." 


The  man  was  killing  her.  To  be  his  spoiled  and  adored 
wife,  knowing  she  w^as  unworthy  of  his  love  and  tenderness, 
was  not  happiness — it  was  grinding  misery,  bringing  death 
into  her  soul.  If  he  had  blamed  her  for  her  incompetence  ; 
if  he  had  scolded  her  for  making  his  home  cheerless  ;  nay,  if 
he  had  beaten  her,  she  could  have  borne  with  life,  and  taken 
her  outward  sufferings  for  her  inward  punishment. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  2G7 

She  fell  into  fits  of  hysteria,  sat  whole  liours  listless,  with 
her  feet  on  the  fender.  Pete's  conduct  exas])erated  her.  As 
time  went  on  and  developed  the  sweetness  of  Pete,  tlie  man 
^rew  more  and  more  distasteful  to  her,  and  she  broke  into  fits 
of  shrewishness.  Pete  hunt?  his  head  and  reproached  himself. 
She  wasn't  to  mind  if  he  said  things — he  was  only  a  rough 
fellow.  Then  she  burst  into  tears  and  asked  him  to  forgive 
her,  and  he  was  all  cock-a-hoop  in  a  moment,  like  a  dog  that 
is  coaxed  after  it  has  been  beaten. 

Her  sufferings  reached  a  climax — she  became  conscious 
that  she  was  about  to  become  a  mother.  This  affected  her 
with  terrible  fears.  She  went  back  to  that  thought  of  a  pos- 
sible contingency  which  had  torn  her  with  conflicting  feelings 
on  the  eve  of  her  marriage.  It  was  impossible  to  be  sure.  The 
idea  might  be  no  more  than  a  morbid  fancy,  born  of  her  un- 
happiness,  of  her  secret  love  for  Philip,  of  her  secret  repug- 
nance for  Pete  (the  inadequate,  the  uncouth,  the  uncongenial) 
but  nevertheless  it  possessed  her  with  the  force  of  an  over- 
powering conviction,  it  grew  upon  her  day  by  day,  it  sat  on 
her  heart  like  a  nightmare— the  child  that  was  to  be  born  to 
her  was  not  the  child  of  her  husband. 


VI. 

In  spite  of  Pete's  invitations,  Philip  came  rarely.  lie  was 
full  of  excuses — work — fresh  studies — the  Governor — his  aunt. 
Pete  said  "Coorse,"  and  "Sartenly,"  and  "Wouldn't  trust," 
until  Philip  began  to  be  ashamed,  and  one  evening  he  came, 
looking  stronger  than  usual,  with  a  more  sustaining  cheerful- 
ness, and  plumped  into  the  house  with  the  words,  "  I've  come 
at  la.st  ! " 

"  To  stay  the  night  ? "  said  Pete. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Philip. 

"  That's  lucky  and  unlucky  too,  for  I'm  this  minute  for  Peel 
with  two  of  the  boys  to  fetch  round  my  Nick(\v  by  the  night- 
tide.  But  you'll  staj'  and  keep  the  wife  company,  and  I'll  be 
back  first  tide  in  the  morning.  You'll  be  obliged  to  him,  won't 
you,  Kate?"  he  cried,  pitching  his  voice  over  his  shoulder; 
and  then,  in  a  whisper,  "  She's  a  bit  down  at  whiles,  and  what 
18 


268  THE   MAXXMAX. 

wonder,  and  her  so  near — but  you'll  see,  you'll  see,"  and  he 
winked  and  nodded  knowingly. 

There  was  no  harking  back,  no  sheering  off  on  the  score  of 
modesty  before  Pete's  large  faith.  Kate  looked  as  if  she  would 
cry  "  Mercy,  mercy  !  "  but  when  she  saw  the  same  appeal  on 
Philip's  face  she  was  stung. 

Pete  went  oflP,  and  then  Kate  and  Philip  sat  down  to  tea. 
While  tea  lasted  it  was  not  hard  to  fill  the  silences  with  com- 
monplaces. After  it  was  over  she  brought  him  a  pipe,  and 
they  lapsed  into  difiicult  pauses.  Philip  puffed  vigorously  and 
tried  to  look  happy.  Kate  struggled  not  to  let  Philip  see  thai 
she  was  ill  at  ease.  Every  moment  their  imagination  took  a 
new  turn.  He  began  to  read  a  book,  and  while  they  sat  with- 
out speaking  she  thought  it  was  hardly  nice  of  him  to  treat 
her  with  indifference.  When  he  spoke  she  thought  he  was 
behaving  with  less  politeness  than  before.  He  went  over  to 
the  piano  and  they  sang  a  part  song,  "  Oh,  who  will  o'er  the 
downs  so  free  ? "  Their  voices  went  well  enough  together,  but 
they  broke  down.  The  more  they  tried  to  forget  the  past  the 
more  they  remembered  it.  He  twiddled  the  backs  of  his  finger- 
tips over  the  kej^board ;  she  swung  on  one  foot  and  held  to  the 
candle-bracket  while  they  talked  of  Pete.  That  name  seemed 
to  fortify  them  against  the  scouts  of  passion.  Pete  was  their 
bulwark.  It  was  the  old  theme,  but  played  as  a  tragedy,  not 
as  a  comedy,  now. 

"It  is  delightful  to  see  you  settled  in  this  beautiful  home," 
he  said. 

" /s?i'f  it  beautiful  ? "  she  answered. 

"  You  ought  to  be  very  happy." 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  happy  ? "  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  A  home  like  a  nest  and  a  husband  that 
worships  you " 

She  laughed  again  because  she  could  not  speak.  Speech 
was  thin  gauze,  laughter  was  rolling  smoke ;  so  she  laughed 
and  laughed. 

"  What  a  fine  hearty  creature  he  is  1  "  said  Philip. 

"  Isn't  he  ?  "  said  Kate. 

"  Education  and  intellect  don't  always  go  together." 

"  Any  wife  might  love  such  a  husband,"  said  Kate. 

''So  simple,  so  natural,  so  unsuspicious " 

But  that  was  coming  to  quarters  too  close,  so  they  fell  back 


MAX   AND    WiFK.  2C)9 

on  silence.  The  silence  was  awful ;  the  ])()wcr  of  it  was  piti- 
less. If  they  could  liavc  spoken  the  ])oorest  commonplaces, 
the  spell  mio;lit  have  dissolved.  Philip  thought  he  would  rise, 
but  he  could  not  do  so.  Kate  tried  to  turn  away,  but  felt  her- 
self rooted  to  the  spot.  With  faces  aside,  they  remained  some 
moments  where  they  were,  as  if  a  spirit  had  passed  between 
them. 

Mi*s.  Gorry  came  in  to  lay  the  supper,  and  then  Kate  re- 
covered herself.  She  got  back  her  power  of  laughter,  and 
laughed  at  everything.  He  w^as  not  deceived.  "  She  loves  me 
still,"  said  the  voice  of  his  heart.  He  hated  hiniself  for  the 
thought,  but  it  haunted  him  with  a  merciless  persistence.  He 
remembered  the  evening  of  the  wedding-day,  and  the  implor- 
ing look  she  gave  him  on  going  away  with  Pete;  and  he  re- 
turned to  the  idea  that  she  had  been  married  under  the  com- 
pulsion of  her  father,  Caesar,  the  avaricious  hypocrite.  He 
told  himself  it  would  be  easy  to  kindle  a  new  fire  on  the 
warm  hearth.  As  she  laughed  and  he  looked  into  her  beauti- 
ful eyes  and  caught  the  nervous  twitch  of  her  mouth,  he  felt 
sometliing  of  the  old  thi'ill,  the  old  passion,  the  old  uncondi- 
tioned love  of  her  who  loved  him  in  spite  of  all,  and  merely 
because  she  must.  But  no  !  Had  he  spent  six  months  abroad 
for  nothing?  He  would  be  strong;  he  would  be  loyal.  If 
need  be  he  would  save  this  woman  from  herself. 

At  last  Kate  lit  a  candle  and  said,  "  I  must  show  you  to 
your  room." 

She  talked  cheerily  going  upstairs.  On  the  landing  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  above  the  hall,  and  went  into  it, 
and  drew  down  the  blind.  She  was  still  full  of  good  spirits, 
said  perhaps  he  had  no  night-shirt,  so  she  had  left  out  one  of 
Pete's,  hoped  he  would  find  it  big  enough,  and  laughed  again. 
He  took  the  candle  ivom  her  at  the  threshold,  and  kissed  the 
hand  that  had  held  it.  She  stood  a  moment  quivering  like  a 
colt,  then  she  bounded  away ;  there  was  the  clash  of  a  door 
somewhere  beyond,  and  Kate  was  in  her  own  room,  kneeling 
before  the  bed  with  her  face  buried  in  the  counterpane  to  stifie 
the  sobs  that  might  break  through  the  walls. 

Under  all  her  lightness,  in  spite  of  all  her  laughter,  the  old 
tormenting  thought  had  been  with  her  still.  Should  she  tell 
him  ?  Could  he  understand  ?  Would  he  believe  ?  If  he  real- 
ised the  gi'avity  of  the  awful  position  in  which  she  was  soon  to 


270  THE   MANXMAN. 

be  placed,  would  he  make  au  effort  to  extricate  her?  And  if  he 
did  not,  would  not,  could  not,  should  not  she  hate  him  for  ever 
after  ?  Then  the  old  simple  love,  the  pure  passion,  came  back 
upon  her  at  the  sight  of  his  face,  at  the  touch  of  his  hand,  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice  ?  Oh,  for  what  might  have  been — what 
might  have  been  ! 

Pete's  Nickey  came  into  harbour  with  the  morning  tide,  and 
the  thi'ee  breakfasted  together.  As  Kate  moved  heavily  in 
front  of  the  fire,  Pete  crowed,  cooed,  and  scattered  wise  winks 
round  the  table. 

"  More  milk,  mammy,"  he  Vv'himpered,  and  then  he  imitated 
all  kinds  of  baby  prattle. 

After  breakfast  the  men  smoked,  and  Kate  took  up  her  sew- 
ing. She  was  occupying  herself  with  the  little  labours,  so  pretty, 
so  full  of  delicate  humour  and  delicious  joy,  which  usually 
open  a  new  avenue  for  a  woman's  tenderness.  Philip's  eyes 
fell  on  her,  and  she  dropped  below  into  her  lap  the  tiny  piece 
of  white  linen  she  was  working  on.  Pete  saw  this,  stole  to  the 
back  of  her  chair,  reached  over  her  shoulder,  snatched  the 
white  thing  out  of  her  fingers,  held  it  outstretched  in  his  pon- 
derous hands,  and  roared  like  a  smithy  bellows.  It  was  a 
baby's  shirt. 

"  Never  mind,  darling,"  he  coaxed,  as  the  colour  leapt  to 
Kate's  face.  "  Philip  must  be  a  sort  of  a  father  to  the  boy 
some  day — a  godfather,  anyway — so  he  won't  mind  seeing  his 
lil  shiff.  We  must  be  calling  him  Philip,  too.  What  do  you 
say,  Kirry — Philip,  is  it  agreed  ? " 


VII. 

As  her  time  drew  near,  the  conviction  deepened  upon  her 
that  she  could  not  be  confined  in  hei'  husband's  house.  Being 
there  at  such  a  crisis  was  like  living  in  a  volcanic  land.  One 
false  step,  one  passionate  impulse,  and  the  very  earth  under 
her  feet  would  split.  "  I  must  go  home  for  awhile,  Pete,"  she 
said. 

'' Coorse  you  must,"  said  Pete.  "Nobody  like  the  ould 
angel  when  a  girl's  that  way." 

Pete  took  her  back  to  her  mother's  in  the  gig,  driving  very 
slowly,  and  lifting  her  up  and  down  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  271 

been  a  child.  She  breathed  freely  when  she  left  Elm  Cottage, 
but  when  she  was  settled  in  her  own  bedroom  at  "  The  Manx 
Fairy  "  she  realised  that  she  had  only  stepped  from  misery  to 
misery.  So  many  memories  lived  like  gliosts  there — memories 
of  innocent  slumbers,  and  of  gleeful  awakenings  amid  the 
twittering  of  birds  and  the  rattling  of  gravel.  The  old  familiar 
place,  the  little  room  with  the  poor  little  window  looking  out  on 
the  orchard,  the  poor  little  bed  with  its  pink  curtains  like  a  tent, 
the  sweet  old  blankets,  the  wash-basin,  the  press,  the  blind 
with  the  same  old  pattern,  the  sheepskin  rug  underfoot,  the 
whitewashed  scraas  overhead — everything  the  same,  but,  O 
God  !  how  different  ! 

"  Let  me  look  at  myself  in  the  glass,  Nancy,''  she  said,  and 
Nancy  gave  her  the  handglass  which  had  been  cracked  the 
morning  after  the  Melliah, 

She  pushed  it  away  peevishly.  "  What's  the  use  of  a  thing 
like  that  ?  "  she  said. 

Pete  haunted  the  house  day  and  night.  There  was  no  bed 
for  him  there,  and  he  was  supposed  to  go  home  to  sleep.  But 
he  wandered  away  in  the  darkness  over  the  Curragh  to  the 
shore,  and  in  the  grey  of  morning  he  was  at  the  door  again, 
bringing  the  cold  breath  of  the  dawn  into  the  house  with  the 
long  whisper  round  the  door  ajar.  *'  How's  she  going  on 
now  ? " 

The  women  bundled  him  out  bodily,  and  then  he  hung 
about  the  roads  like  a  dog  disowned.  If  he  heard  a  sigh  from 
the  dairy  loft,  he  sat  down  against  the  gable  and  groaned. 
Grannie  tried  to  comfort  him.  "Don't  be  taking  on  so,  boy. 
It'll  be  all  joy  soon,"  said  she,  "and  you'll  be  having  the  child 
to  shew  for  it." 

But  Pete  was  bitter  and  rebellious.  "  Who's  wanting  the 
child  anyway?"  said  he.  "It's  only  herself  Im  wanting; 
and  she's  laving  me  ;  O  Lord,  she's  laving  me.  God  forgive 
me  !  "  he  muttered.  "  O  good  God,  forgive  me  ! ''  he  groaned: 
"  It  isn't  fair,  though.  Lord  knows  it  isn't  fair,"  he  mumbled 
hoarselj'. 

At  last  Nancy  Joe  came  out  and  took  him  in  hand  in 
earnest. 

"Look  here,  Pete,"  she  said.  "If  you're  wanting  to 
kill  the  woman,  and  middling  quick  too,  you'll  go  on 
the  way  you're  going.     But  if  you  don't,  you'll  be  taking 


272  THE  MANXMAN. 

tx)  the  road,  and  you  won't  be  coming  back  till  you're 
wanted. " 

This  settled  Pete's  restlessness.  The  fishing  had  begun 
early  that  season,  and  he  went  oif  for  a  night  to  the  herrings. 

Kate  waited  long,  and  the  women  watched  her  with  trem- 
bling. "It's  a  week  or  two  early,"  said  one.  "The  weather's 
warm,"  said  another.  ''The  boghee  millish  1  She's  a  bit 
soon,"  said  Grannie. 

There  was  less  of  fear  in  Kate's  own  feelings. 

"  Do  women  often  die  ? "  she  asked. 

"  The  proportion  is  small,"  said  the  doctor. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  she  spoke  again. 

"Does  the  child  sometimes  die  ?" 

"Well, I've  known  it  to  happen, but  only  when  the  mother 
has  had  a  shock — lost  her  husband,  for  example." 

She  lay  tossing  on  the  bed,  wishing  for  her  own  death, 
hoping  for  the  death  of  the  unborn  child,  dreading  its  coming 
lest  she  should  hate  and  loathe  it.  At  last  came  the  child's 
first  cry — that  cry  out  of  silence  that  had  never  broken  on  the 
air  before,  but  was  henceforth  to  be  one  of  the  world's  voices 
for  laughter  and  for  weeping,  for  joy  and  for  sorrow,  to  her 
who  had  borne  it  into  life.  Then  she  called  to  them  to  show 
her  the  baby,  and  when  they  did  so,  bringing  it  up  with  soft 
cooings  and  foolish  words,  she  searched  the  little  wrinkled 
face  with  a  frightened  look,  then  put  up  her  arms  to  shut  out 
the  sight,  and  cried  "Take  it  away,"  and  turned  to  the  wall. 
Her  vague  fear  was  a  certainty  now  ;  the  child  was  the  child 
of  her  sin— she  was  a  bad  woman. 

Yet  there  is  no  shame,  no  fear,  no  horror,  but  the  pleading 
of  a  new-born  babe  can  drown  its  clamour.  The  child  cried 
again,  and  the  cruel  battle  of  love  and  dread  was  won  for 
motherhood.  The  mother  heart  awoke  and  swelled.  She 
had  got  her  baby,  at  all  events.  It  was  all  she  had  for  all  she 
had  suffered  ;  but  it  was  enough,  and  a  dear  and  precious 
prize. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  well  ?"  she  asked.  "  Quite,  quite  well  ? 
Doesn't  its  little  face  look  as  if  its  mammy  had  been  crying — 
no?" 

"  'Deed  no,"  said  Grannie,  "  but  as  bonny  a  baby  as  ever 
was  born." 

The  women  were  scurrying  up  and  down,  giggling  on  the 


MAN  AXD   WIFE.  273 

landing,  laughing  on  the  stairs,  and  saying  husJi  at  their  own 
noises  as  they  crept  into  the  room.  In  a  fretful  whimper  tlie 
child  was  still  crying,  and  Grannie  was  telling  it,  with  many 
wags  of  the  head  and  in  a  mighty  stern  voice,  that  they  were 
going  to  have  none  of  its  complaining  now  that  it  had  come 
at  last  ;  and  Kate  herself,  with  hands  clasped  together,  was 
saying  in  a  soft  murmur  like  a  prayer,  "God  is  very  good, 
and  the  doctor  is  good  too.  God  is  good  to  give  us  doc- 
tors." 

"  Lie  quiet,  and  I'll  come  back  in  an  hour  or  two,''  said  Dr. 
Mj-lechreest  from  half-way  through  the  door. 

"  Dear  heart  alive,  what  will  the  father  say  ? "  cried  Gran- 
nie, and  then  the  whole  place  broke  into  that  smile  of  surprise 
which  comes  to  every  house  after  the  twin  angels  of  Life  and 
Death  have  brooded  long  over  its  roof-tree,  and  are  gone  at 
length  before  the  face  of  a  little  child. 


VIII. 

When  Pete  came  up  to  the  quay  in  the  raw  sunshine  of 
early  morning,  John  the  Clerk,  mounted  on  a  barrel,  was  sell- 
ing by  auction  the  night's  take  of  the  boats. 

"  I've  news  for  3'ou,  Mr.  Quilliam,"  he  cried,  as  Pete's  boat, 
with  half  sail  set,  dropped  down  the  harbour.  Pete  brought 
to,  leapt  ashore,  and  went  up  to  where  John,  at  the  end  of  the 
jetty,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  buyers  in  little  spring-carts, 
was  taking  bids  for  the  fish. 

"One  moment,  Capt'n,"  he  cried,  across  his  outstretched 
arm,  at  the  end  whereof  was  a  herring  with  gills  still  opening 
and  closing.  "  Ten  maise  of  this  sort  for  the  last  lot,  well  fed, 
alive  and  kicking— how  much  for  them  ?  Five  shillings  ? 
Thank  you— and  three.  Five  and  three.  It's  in  it  yet,  boys- 
only  five  and  three— and  six,  thank  you.  It'll  do  no  harm  at 
five  and  six— six  shillings  ?  All  done  at  six— and  sLr  f  All 
done  at  six  and  six  ?"  "Seven  shillings,"  shouted  somebody 
with  a  voice  like  a  foghorn.  "They're  Annie  the  Cadger's," 
said  John,  dropping  to  the  ground.  "And  now,  Capt'n 
Quilliam,  we'll  go  and  wet  the  youngster's  head." 

Pete  went  up  to  Sulby  like  an  avalanclie,  sliouting  his 
greetings  to  everybody  on  the  way.     But  when  he  got  near  to 


27i  THE  MANXMAN. 

the  "Fairy,"  he  wiped  his  steaming  forehead  and  held  his 
panting  breath,  and  pretended  not  to  have  heard  the  news. 

"How's  the  poor  girl  now  ?"  he  said  in  a  meek  voice,  try- 
ing to  look  powerfully  miserable,  and  playing  his  part  splen- 
didly for  thirty  seconds. 

Then  the  women  made  eyes  at  each  other  and  looked  won- 
drous knowing,  and  nodded  sideways  at  Pete,  and  clucked  and 
chuckled,  saying,  "  Look  at  him,— /le  doesn't  know  anything, 
does  he  ?"  "  Cooi^e  not,  woman— these  men  creatures  are  no 
use  for  nothing." 

"  Out  of  a  man's  way,"  cried  Pete,  with  a  roar,  and  he  made 
a  rush  for  the  stairs. 

Nancy  blocked  him  at  the  foot  of  them  with  both  hands  on 
his  shoulders.  "You'll  be  quiet,  then,"  she  whispered.  "You 
were  always  a  rasonable  man,  Pete,  and  she's  wonderful  wake 
— promise  you'll  be  quiet." 

"  ril  be  like  a  mouse,"  said  Pete,  and  he  whipped  off  his 
long  sea-boots  and  crept  on  tiptoe  into  the  room. 

There  she  lay  with  the  morning  light  on  her,  and  a  face  as 
white  as  the  quilt  that  she  was  plucking  witii  her  long  fingers. 

"Thank  God  for  a  living  mother  and  a  living  child,"  said 
Pete,  in  a  broken  gurgle,  and  then  he  drew  down  the  bed- 
clothes a  very  little,  and  there,  too,  was  the  child  on  the  pil- 
low of  her  other  arm. 

Then  do  what  he  would  to  be  quiet,  he  could  not  help  but 
make  a  shout. 

"  He's    there  !      Yes,    he    is  !       He    is,    though  !       Joy  ! 

Joy!" 

The  women  were  down  on  him  like  a  flock  of  geese.  "  Out 
of  this,  sir,  if  you  can't  behave  better." 

"  Excuse  me,  ladies,"  said  Pete  humbly,  "  I'm  not  in  the 
habit  of  babies.  A  bit  excited,  you  see.  Mistress  Nancy, 
ma'am.  Couldn't  help  putting  a  bull  of  a  roar  out,  not  being 
used  of  the  like."  Then,  turning  back  to  the  bed,  "  Aw,  Kitty, 
the  beauty  it  is,  though  I  And  the  big  !  As  big  as  my  fist 
already.  And  the  fat  !  It's  as  fat  as  a  bluebottle.  And  the 
straight  !  Well,  not  so  very  straight,  neither,  but  the  com- 
plexion at  him  now  !  Give  him  to  me,  Kitty  !  give  him  to 
me,  the  young  rascal.     Let  me  have  a  hould  of  him,  any- 


way." 


Him,  indeed  !    Listen  to  the  man,"  said  Nancy. 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  275 

''It's  a  f^irl,  Pete,"  said  Grannie,  lifting  the  child  out  of  tlic 
hed. 

"A  girl,  is  it?''siud  Pete  doubtfully.  ''Well,"  he  said, 
with  a  wag  of  the  head,  ''  thank  God  for  a  girl."  Then,  with 
another  and  more  resolute  wag,  "Yes,  thank  God  for  a  living 
mother  and  a  living  child,  if  it  is  a  girl,"  and  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  to  take  the  baby. 

"  Aisy,  now,  Pete— aisy,"  said  Grannie,  holding  it  out  to 
him. 

''  Is  it  aisy  broke  they  are,  Grannie  ? "  said  Pete.  A  good 
spirit  looked  out  of  his  great  boyish  face.  "  Come  to  your 
ould  daddie,  you  lil  sandpiper.  Gough  bless  me,  Kitty,  the 
weight  of  him,  though  !  This  child's  a  quarter  of  a  hundred 
if  he's  an  ounce.  He  is,  I'll  go  bail  he  is.  Look  at  him  ! 
Guy  heng.  Grannie,  did  ye  ever  see  the  like,  now  !  It's  ab- 
s'lute  perfection.  Kitty,  I  couldn't  hav^e  had  a  better  one  if 
I'd  chiced  it.  Where's  that  Tom  Hommy  now  ?  The  bleating 
little  billj^goat,  he  was  bragging  outrageous  about  his  new 
baby— saying  he  wouldn't  part  with  it  for  two  of  the  best  cows 
in  his  cow-house.  This'll  floor  him,  I'm  thinking.  What's 
that  you're  saying,  Mistress  Nancy,  ma'am  ?  No  good  for 
nothing,  am  I  ?  You  were  right,  Grannie.  'It'll  be  all  joy 
soon,'  you  were  saying,  and  haven't  we  the  child  to  show  for 
it  ?  I  put  on  my  stocking  inside  out  on  Monday,  ma'am. 
'  I'm  in  luck,'  says  I,  and  so  I  was.  Look  at  that,  now  I  He's 
shaking  his  lil  fist  at  his  father.  He  is,  though.  This  child 
knows  me.  Aw.  you're  clever,  Nancy,  but — no  nonsense  at 
all.  Mistress  Nancy,  ma'am.  Nothing  will  persuade  me  but 
this  child  knows  me." 

"  Do  you  hear  the  man  ? "  said  Nancy.  "  He  and  he,  and 
he  and  he!  It's  a  girl,  I'm  telling  you;  a  girl — a  girl — a 
girl." 

"Well,  well,  a  girl,  then — a  girl  we'll  make  it"  said  Pete, 
with  determined  resignation. 

"  He's  deceaved,"  said  Grannie.  "  It  was  a  boy  he  was 
wanting,  poor  fellow  ! '' 

But  Pete  scoffed  at  the  idea.  "  A  boy  ?  Never  I  No,  no 
— a  girl  for  your  life.  I'm  all  for  girls  myself,  eh,  Kitty  ? 
Always  was,  and  now  I've  got  two  of  them." 

The  child  began  to  cry,  and  Grannie  took  it  back  and 
rocked  it,  face  downwards,  across  her  knees. 


276  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Goodness  me,  the  voice  at  him  !  "  said  Pete.  "  It's  a 
skipper  he's  born  for — a  harbour-master,  anyway." 

The  child  slept,  and  Grannie  put  it  on  the  pillow  turned 
lengthwise  at  Kate's  side. 

"Quiet  as  a  Jenny  Wren,  no\v,"  said  Pete.  ''Look  at  the 
bogh  smiling  in  his  sleep.  Just  like  a  baby  mermaid  on  the 
egg  of  a  dogfish.  But  where's  the  ould  man  at  all  ?  Has  he 
seen  it  ?  We  must  have  it  in  the  papers.  The  Times  f  Yes, 
and  the 'Ti'ser  too.  'The  beloved  wife  of  Mr.  Capt'n  Peter 
Quilliam,  of  a  boy — a  girl,'  I  mane.  Aw,  the  wonder  there'll 
be  all  the  island  over — everybody  getting  to  know.  Newspa- 
pers are  like  women— ter'ble  bad  for  keeping  sacrets.  What'll 
Philip  say  ?  But  haven't  you  a  toothful  of  an^^thing,  Gran- 
nie ?  Gin  for  the  ladies,  Nancy.  Goodness  me,  the  house  is 
handy.  What  time  was  it  ?  Wait,  don't  tell  me  !  It  was 
five  o'clock  this  morning,  wasn't  it  ?  Yes  ?  Gough  bless  me, 
I  knew^  it  !  High  water  to  the  very  minute — aw,  he'll  rise  in 
the  world,  and  die  at  the  top  of  the  tide.  How  did  I  know 
when  the  child  was  born,  ma'am  ?  As  aisy  as  aisy.  We  were 
lying  adrift  of  Cronk  ny  Irrey  Lhaa,  looking  up  for  daylight 
by  the  fisherman's  clock.  Only  light  enough  to  see  the  black 
of  your  nail,  ma'am.  All  at  once  I  heard  a  baby's  cry  on  the 
waters.  '  It's  the  nameless  child  of  Earey  Cushin,'  sings  out 
one  of  the  boys.  'Up  with  the  clout,'  says  I.  And  when  we 
were  hauling  the  nets  and  down  on  our  knees  saying  a  bit  of 
a  prayer,  as  usual,  'God  bless  my  new-born  child,'  says  I, 
'  and  God  bless  my  child's  mother,  too,'  I  says,  '  and  God  love 
and  protect  them  always,  and  keep  and  presarve  myself  as 
well.'  "    There  was  a  low  moaning  from  the  bed. 

"  Air  !     Give  me  air  !     Open  the  door  !  *'  Kate  gasped. 

"  The  room  is  getting  too  hot  for  her,"  said  Grannie. 

"Come,  there's  one  too  many  of  us  here,"  said  Nancy. 
"  Out  of  it,"  and  she  swept  Pete  from  the  bedroom  with  her 
apron  as  if  he  had  been  a  drove  of  ducks. 

Pete  glanced  backward  from  the  door,  and  a  cloak  that  was 
hanging  on  the  inside  of  it  brushed  his  face. 

"  God  bless  her  I  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "  God  bless  and 
reward  her  for  going  through  this  for  me  !  " 

Then  he  touched  the  cloak  with  his  lips  and  disappeared. 
A  moment  later  his  curly  black  poll  came  stealing  round  the 
doorjamb,  half-way  down,  like  the  head  of  a  big  boy. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  277 

"  Nancy,"  in  a  wliisper,  "  put  the  tonjjs  over  the  cradle ;  it's 
a  pity  to  tempt  the  fairies.  And,  Grannie,  I  wouldn't  hive  it 
alone  to  go  out  to  the  cow-house — the  lil  people  are  shocking 
bad  for  changing." 

Kate,  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  listened  to  him  with  ;ui 
aching  heart.     As  Pete  went  down  the  doctor  returned. 

"  She's  hardly  so  well,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Better  not  let 
her  nurse  the  child.  Bring  it  up  hy  hand.  It  will  he  best  for 
both." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Nancy  should  be  made  nurse  and 
go  to  Elm  Cottage,  and  that  Mrs.  Gorry  should  come  in  her 
place  to  Sulby. 

Throughout  four-and-twenty  hours  thereafter,  Kate  tried 
her  utmost  to  shut  her  heart  to  the  child.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  being  left  some  minutes  alone  with  the  little  one,  she  Wius 
heard  singing  to  it  in  a  sweet,  low  tone.  Nancy  paused  with 
the  long  brush  in  her  hand  in  the  kitchen,  and  Granny  stopped 
at  her  knitting  in  the  bar, 

•'That's  something  like,  now,"  said  Naucy. 

"Poor  thing,  poor  Kirryl  What  wonder  if  she  was  a  bit 
out  of  her  head,  the  bogh,  and  her  not  well  since  her  wed- 
ding?" 

They  crept  upstairs  together  at  the  unaccustomed  sounds, 
and  found  Pete,  whom  they  had  missed,  outside  the  bedroom 
door,  half  doubled  up  and  holding  his  breath  to  listen. 

"  Hush !  "  said  he,  less  with  his  tongue  than  with  his  mouth, 
which  he  pursed  out  to  represent  the  sound.  Then  he  whi.s- 
pered,  "She's  filling  all  the  room  with  music.  Listen  !  It's  as 
good  as  fairy  music  in  Glentrammon.  And  it's  the  little  fairy 
itself  that's  'ticing  it  out  of  her." 

Next  day  Philip  came,  and  nothing  would  serve  for  Pete 
but  that  he  should  go  up  to  see  the  child. 

"It's  only  Phil,"  he  said,  through  the  doorway,  dragging 
Philip  into  Kate's  room  after  him,  for  the  familiarity  that  a 
great  joy  permits  breaks  down  conventions.  Kate  did  not 
look  up,  and  Philip  tried  to  escape. 

"  He's  got  good  news  for  himself,  too"'  said  Pete.  "  They're 
to  be  making  him  Dempster  a  month  to-morrow." 

Then  Kate  lifted  her  eyes  to  Philii)'s  face,  and  all  the  glory 
of  success  withered  under  her  gaze.  He  stuMil)l(Ml  downstairs, 
and   hurried  away.      There  was  the  old  persistent  thought. 


278  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  She  loves  me  still,"  but  it  was  working-  now,  in  tlie  presence 
of  the  child,  with  how  great  a  difference!  When  he  looked 
at  the  little,  downy  face,  a  new  feeling  took  possession  of  him. 
Her  child — hers — that  might  have  been  his  also  !  Had  his 
bargain  been  worth  having  ?  Was  any  promotion  in  the 
world  to  be  set  against  one  throb  of  Pete's  simple  joy.  one 
gleam  of  the  auroral  radiance  that  lights  up  a  poor  man's 
home  when  he  is  first  a  father,  one  moment  of  divine  partner- 
ship in  the  babe  that  is  fresh  from  God  ? 

Three  weeks  later,  Pete  took  his  wife  home  in  Caesar's  gig. 
Everything  was  the  same,  as  when  he  brought  her,  save  that 
within  the  shawls  with  which  she  was  wrapped  about  the 
child  now  lay  with  its  pink  eyelids  to  the  sky,  and  its  flat 
white  bottle  against  her  breast.  It  was  a  beautiful  spring 
morning,  and  the  young  sunlight  was  on  the  sallies  of  the 
Curragh  and  the  gold  of  the  roadside  gorse.  Pete  was  as  silly 
as  a  boy,  and  he  chirped  and  croaked  all  the  way  home  like 
every  bird  and  beast  of  heaven  and  earth.  When  they  got  to 
Elm  Cottage,  he  lifted  his  wife  down  as  tenderly  as  if  she  had 
been  the  babe  she  had  in  her  arms.  He  was  strong  and  she 
was  light,  and  he  half  hel^Ded,  half  carried  her  to  the  porch 
door.  Nancy  was  there  to  take  the  child  out  of  her  hands, 
and,  as  she  did  so,  Pete,  back  at  the  horse's  head,  cried,  "  That's 
the  last  bit  of  furniture  the  house  was  waiting  for,  Nancy. 
What's  a  house  without  a  child  ?  Just  a  room  without  a 
clock." 

"Clock,  indeed,"  said  Nancy;  "clocks  are  stopping,  but  this 
one's  for  going  like  a  mill." 

"Don't  be  tempting  the  Nightman,  Nancy,"  cried  Pete;  but 
he  was  full  of  childlike  delight. 

Kate  stepped  inside.  The  fire  burned  in  the  hall  parlour, 
the  fire-irons  shone  like  glass,  there  were  sprigs  of  fuchsia-bud 
in  the  ornaments  on  the  chimney  piece — everything  was  warm 
and  cheerful  and  homelike.  She  sat  down  without  taking  off 
her  hat.  "  Why  can't  I  be  quiet  and  happy  ? "  she  thought. 
"  Why  can't  I  make  myself  love  him  and  forget  ? " 

But  she  was  like  one  who  traversed  a  desert  under  the  sea — 
a  vast  submerged  Sahara.  Over  her  head  was  all  her  life, 
with  all  her  love  and  all  her  happiness,  and  the  things  around 
her  were  only  the  ghostly  shadows  cast  by  them. 


MAN  AND   WIFE.  279 


IX. 

The  more  Kate  realised  that  she  was  in  the  position  of  a 
bad  woman,  the  more  she  stru*rffled  to  be  a  j>-ood  one.  She 
flew  to  religion  as  a  refuge.  Tiiere  was  no  belief  in  her  relig- 
ion, no  faith,  no  creed,  no  mystical  transports,  but  only  fear, 
and  shame,  and  contrition.  It  was  fervent  enough,  neverthe- 
less. On  Sunday  morning  she  went  to  The  Christians,  on 
Sunday  afternoon  to  church,  on  Sunday  evening  to  the  Wes- 
leyan  chapel,  and  on  Wednesday  night  to  the  mission-house 
of  the  Primitives.  Her  catholicity  did  not  please  her  father. 
He  looked  into  her  quivering  face,  and  asked  if  she  had  broken 
any  commandment  in  secret.  She  turned  pale,  and  answered 
"No." 

Pete  followed  her  wherever,she  went,  and,  seeing  this,  some 
of  the  baser  sort  among  the  religious  people  began  to  follow 
him.  They  abused  each  other  badly  in  their  efforts  to  lay 
hold  of  his  money-bags.  "  You'll  never  go  over  to  yonder 
lot,"  said  one.  "  They're  holding  to  election— a  soul-destroy- 
ing doctrine."  "A  respectable  man  can't  join  himself  to 
Cowley's  gang,"  said  another.  "They're  denying  original 
sin,  and  aren't  a  ha'p'orth  better  than  infidels." 

Pete  took  the  measure  of  them  all,  down  to  the  watch- 
pockets  of  their  waistcoats. 

"  You  remind  me,"  said  he,  "  w^hen  you're  a-gate  on  your 
doctrines,  of  the  Kafl5rs  out  at  Kimberley.  If  one  of  them 
found  an  ould  hat  in  the  compound  that  some  white  man  had 
thrown  away,  they'd  light  a  camp-fire  after  dark,  and  hould  a 
reg'lar  Tynwald  Coort  on  it.  There  they'd  be  squatting  round 
on  their  haunches,  with  nothing  to  be  seen  of  them  but  their 
eyes  and  their  teeth,  and  there'd  be  as  many  questions  as  the 
Catechism.  '  Who  found  it  ? '  says  one.  '  Where  did  lie  find 
it?'  says  another.  'If  he  hadn't  found  it,  who  else  would 
have  found  it  ? '  That's  how  they'd  be  going  till  two  in  the 
morning,  and  the  fire  dead  out,  and  the  lot  of  them  .squealing 
away  same  as  monkeys  in  the  dark.  And  all  about  an  ould 
hat  with  a  hole  in  it,  not  worth  a  ha'penny  })iece." 

"Blasphemy,"  they  cried.  "  But  still  and  for  all,  you  give 
to  the  widow  and  lend  to  the  Lord— you  practise  the  religion 
you  don't  believe  in,  Cap'n  Quilliam." 


280  THE   MANXMAX. 

"  Tliere's  a  pair  of  us,  tlieu,"  said  Pete,  '•  for  you  believe  in 
the  religion  you  don't  practise." 

But  Csesar  got  Pete  at  last,  in  spite  of  his  scepticism.  The 
time  came  for  the  annual  camp-meeting.  Kate  went  off  to  it, 
and  Pete  followed  like  a  big  dog  at  her  heels.  The  company 
assembled  at  Sulby  Bridge,  and  marched  through  the  village 
to  a  revival  chorus.  They  stopped  at  a  field  of  Ceesars  in  the 
glen — it  was  last  year's  Melliah  field — and  Caesar  mounted  a 
cart  which  had  been  left  there  to  serve  as  a  pulpit.  Then 
they  sang  again,  and,  breaking  up  into  many  companies,  went 
off  into  little  circles  that  were  like  gorse  rings  on  the  moun- 
tains. After  that  they  reassembled  to  the  strains  of  another 
chorus,  and  gathered  afresh  about  the  cart  for  Ca?sar's  sermon. 

It  dealt  with  the  duty  of  sinless  perfection.  There  were 
evil  men  and  happy  sinners  in  the  island  these  days,  who 
were  telling  them  it  was  not  good  to  be  faultless  in  this  life, 
because  virtue  begot  pride,  and  pride  was  a  deadly  sin.  There 
were  others  who  were  saying  that  because  a  man  must  repent 
in  order  to  be  saved,  to  repent  he  had  to  sin.  Doctrines  of 
the  devil — don't  listen  to  them.  Could  a  man  in  the  house- 
hold of  faith  live  one  second  without  committing  sin  ?  Of 
coui'se  he  could.  One  minute  ?  Certainly.  One  hour  ?  No 
doubt  of  it.  Then,  if  a  man  could  live  one  hour  without  sin, 
he  could  live  one  day,  one  week,  one  month,  one  year — nay,  a 
whole  lifetime. 

In  getting  thus  far,  Caesar  had  worked  himself  into  a  per- 
spiration, and  he  took  off  his  coat,  hung  it  over  the  cart- 
wheel, and  went  on  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  Let  them  make  no 
excuses  for  backslidei'S.  It  was  a  trick  of  the  devil  to  deal 
with  you,  and  forget  to  pay  strap  (the  price).  It  was  an  old 
rule  and  a  good  one  that,  if  any  were  guilty  of  tlie  sins  of  the 
flesh,  they  should  be  openh^  punished  in  this  world,  that  their 
sins  might  not  be  counted  against  them  iu  the  day  of  the 
Lord. 

Caesar  threw  off  his  waistcoat  and  finished  with  a  passion- 
ate exhortation,  calling  upon  his  hearers  to  deliver  themselves 
of  secret  sins.  If  oratorj^  is  to  be  judged  of  by  its  effects, 
Caesar's  sermon  was  a  great  oration.  It  began  amid  the 
silence  of  his  own  followers,  and  the  tschts  and  pshaws  of  a 
little  gi'oup  of  his  enemies,  who  lounged  on  the  outside  of  the 
crowd  to  cast  ridicule  on  the  "  swaddler  "  and  the  "  publican 


MAX    AND    WIFK.  281 

preacher."  But  it  oiulod  amid  loud  exclamations  of  praise 
and  supidii'atioiis  from  all  his  hearers,  si^hinn;- and  jifroaning-, 
and  the  bodily  clutchin<^  of  one  another  by  the  arm  in  parox- 
ysms of  fear  and  rapture. 

When  Ca3sar's  voice  died  down  like  a  wave  of  the  sea, 
somebody  leapt  up  from  the  grass  to  pray.  And  before  the 
first  prayer  had  ended,  a  second  was  begun.  Meantime  the 
penitents  had  begun  to  move  inward  through  the  throng,  and 
they  fell  weeping  and  moaning  on  their  knees  about  the  cart. 
Kate  was  among  them,  and,  when  she  took  her  place,  Pete 
still  held  by  her  side.  A  strong  shuddering  passed  over  her 
shouldei-s,  and  her  wet  eyes  were  on  the  grass.  Pete  took  her 
hand,  and  feeling  how  it  trembled,  his  own  eyes  also  filled. 
Above  llieir  heads  Caesar  was  towering  with  fiery  eyes  and 
face  aflame.  In  a  momentary  pause  between  two  prayers,  he 
tossed  his  voice  up  in  a  hymn.  The  people  joined  him  at  the 
second  bar,  and  then  the  wailing  of  the  penitents  was  drowned 
in  a  general  shout  of  the  revival  tune — 

"  If  some  poor  wandering  child  of  Thine 
Have  spurned  to-day  the  voice  divine, 
Now,  Lord,  the  gracious  work  begin, 
Let  him  no  more  lie  down  in  sin." 

Kate  sobbed  aloud— poor  vessel  of  human  passions  tossed 
about,  tormented  by  the  fire  that  was  consuming  her. 

As  the  penitents  grew  calmer,  they  rose  one  by  one  to  give 
their  experience  of  Satan  and  salvation.  At  length  Caesar 
seized  his  opportunity  and  said,  "  And  now  Brother  Quilliam 
will  give  us  his  experience." 

Pete  rose  from  Kate's  side  with  tearful  eyes  amid  a  babel 
of  jubilation,  most  of  it  facetious.  "  Be  of  good  cheer,  Peter, 
be  not  afraid." 

''  I've  not  much  to  tell,"  said  Pete — "only  a  story  of  back- 
sliding. Before  I  earned  enough  to  carry  me  up  country,  I 
worked  a  month  at  Cape  Town  with  the  boats.  My  master 
was  a  pious  old  Dutchman  getting  the  name  of  Jan.  One 
Saturday  night  a  big  ship  lost  her  anchor  outside,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  forty  pounds  was  offered  for  finding  it.  All 
the  boatmen  went  out  except  Jan.  '  Six  days  shalt  thou  labour,' 
says  he,  '  but  the  seventh  is  the  Sabbath.' " 


2S2  THE  MANXMAN. 

Pete's  address  was  here  punctuated  by  loud  cries  of  thanks- 
giving. 

"  All  day  long  he  was  seeing  the  boats  beating  up  the  bay, 
so,  to  keep  out  of  temptation,  he  was  going  up  to  the  bedroom 
and  pulling  the  blind  and  getting  down  on  his  knees  and 
w^rastling  like  mad.  And  something  out  of  heaven  was  say- 
ing to  him,  '  It's  the  Lord's  day,  Jaunie  ;  they'll  not  get  a 
ha'p'orth.'  Neither  did  they  ;  but  ^vhen  Jan's  watch  said 
twelve  o'clock  midnight  the  pair  of  us  were  going  ofip  like 
rockets.  Well,  we  hadn't  been  ten  minutes  on  the  water  be- 
fore our  grapplings  had  hould  of  that  anchor." 

There  were  loud  cries  of  "  Glory  !  " 

"Jan  was  shouting,  'The  Lord  has  put  us  atop  of  it  as 
sti'aight  as  the  lid  of  a  taypot  ! ' " 

Great  cries  of  "  Hallelujah  ! " 

"  But  when  we  came  ashore  we  found  Jan's  watch  was 
twenty  minutes  fast,  and  that  w^as  the  end  of  the  ould  man's 
religion." 

That  day  the  word  went  round  that  both  Pete  and  Kate 
had  been  converted.  Their  names  were  entered  in  Class,  and 
they  received  their  quarterly  tickets. 


X. 

Next  morning  Xate  set  out  to  church  for  her  churching. 
Her  household  duties  had  lost  their  interest  by  this  time,  and 
she  left  Nancy  to  cook  the  dinner.  Pete  had  volunteei'ed  to 
take  charge  of  the  child.  This  he  began  to  do  by  establishing 
himself  with  his  pipe  in  an  armchair  by  the  cradle,  and  look- 
ing steadfastly  down  into  it  until  the  little  one  awoke.  Then 
he  rocked  it,  rummaged  his  memory  for  a  nursery  song  to 
quiet  it,  and  smoked  and  sang  together. 

"  A  frog  he  would  a-wooing  go, 
Kitty  alone,  Kitty  alone, 
{Puff,  puff.) 

A  wonderful  likely  sort  of  a  beau, 
Kitty  alone  and  II" 
(Puff,  puff,  pyff.) 

The  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  doorway,  and  a  man's  shadow 
fell  across  the  cradle-head.     It  was  Philip.     Pete  put  his  mouth 


31  AN    AND   Wll'l':.  283 

out  into  the  fonn  of  an  unspoken  "  Husli,"  and  Plulij)  sat  down 
in  silence,  while  Pete  went  on  with  his  smoke  and  his  son*,'-. 

"  But  when  her  hushund  nit  came  home, 
Kittij  alone,  Kitty  alone, 
Pray  who's  been  here  since  Pve  been  gone? 
Kitty  alone  and  //" 
{Puff,  puff.) 

Pete  had  got  to  the  middle  of  the  vei'se  about  "  the  worthy 
gentleman,"  when  the  low  whine  in  the  cradle  lengthened  to 
a  long  breath  and  stopj)ed. 

"Gone  otf  at  last,  God  bless  it,"  said  Pete.  "And  how's 
yourself,  Philip  ?    x\nd  how  goes  the  petition  ? " 

With  his  head  on  his  hand,  Philij)  was  gazing  absently 
into  the  fire,  and  he  did  not  hear. 

"  How  goes  the  petition  I "  said  Pete. 

"It  was  that  I  came  to  speak  of,"  said  Philip.  ''Sorry  to 
say  it  has  had  no  effect  but  a  bad  one.  It  has  only  drawn 
attention  to  the  fact  that  Manx  fishermen  pay  no  harbour 
dues." 

"  And  right  too,"  said  Pete.  ''  The  harbours  are  our  fathers' 
harbours,  and  were  freed  to  us  forty  years  ago." 

'"  Nevertheless,"  said  Philip,  "'  the  dues  are  to  be  demanded. 
The  Governor  has  issued  an  order." 

'•  Then  we'll  rise  against  it — every  fisherman  in  the  island," 
said  Pete.  ''  And  when  they're  making  you  Dempster,  you'll 
back  us  up  in  the  Tynwald  Coort." 

''  Take  care,  Pete,  take  care,"  said  Philip. 

Then  Kate  came  in  from  church,  and  Pete  welcomed  her 
with  a  shout.  Philip  rose  and  bowed  in  silence.  The  marks 
of  the  prayers  of  the  week  were  on  her  face,  but  they  had 
brought  her  no  comfort.  She  had  been  constantly  promising 
herself  consolation  from  religion,  but  every  fresh  exerci.se  of 
devotion  had  seemed  to  tear  open  the  wound  from  which  she 
bled  to  death. 

She  removed  her  cloak  and  ste])ped  to  the  cradle.  The 
child  was  sleeping  peacefully,  but  she  convinced  herself  that 
it  must  be  unwell.  Her  own  hands  were  cold  and  moist,  and 
when  she  touched  the  child  she  thought  its  skin  was  clammy. 
Presently  her  hands  became  hot  and  dry,  and  when  she  touched 
the  child  again  she  thought  its  forehead  was  feverish. 
19 


2 Si  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  I'm  sure  she's  ill/'  she  said. 

''Chut  I  love,''  said  Pete  ;  "no  more  ill  than  I  am." 

But,  to  calm  her  fears,  he  went  off  for  the  doctor.  The 
doctor  was  away  in  the  country,  and  was  not  likely  to  be 
back  for  hom^s.  Kate's  fears  increased.  Every  time  she 
looked  at  the  child  she  applied  to  it  the  symptoms  of  her 
own  condition. 

"  My  child  is  dying — I'm  sure  it  is."  she  cried. 

"  Nonsense,  darling,"  said  Pete.  "  Only  an  hour  ago  it  was 
looking  up  as  imperent  as  a  tomtit." 

At  last  a  new  terror  seized  her,  and  she  cried,  "  My  child  is 
dying  unbaptized." 

"Well,  we'll  soon  mend  that,  love.''  said  Pete.  ''I'll  be 
going  off  for  the  parson."  And  he  caught  up  his  hat  and 
went  out. 

He  called  on  Parson  Quiggin,  who  jDromised  to  follow  im- 
mediately. Then  he  went  on  to  Sulby  to  fetch  Caesar  and 
Grannie  and  some  others,  having  no  fear  for  the  child's  life, 
but  some  hope  of  banishing  Kate's  melancholy  by  the  merri- 
ment of  a  christening  feast. 

Meanwhile,  Philip  and  Kate  were  alone  with  the  little  one, 
save  in  the  intervals  of  Nancy's  coming  and  going  between 
the  hall  and  the  kitchen.  She  was  restless,  and  full  of  expec- 
tation, starting  at  every  sound  and  every  step.  He  could  see 
that  she  had  gone  whole  nights  without  sleep,  and  was  passing 
through  an  existence  that  was  burning  itself  away. 

Do  what  he  would  to  explain  her  sufferings  as  the  common 
results  of  childbirth,  he  could  not  help  resolving  them  in  the 
old  flattering  solution.  She  was  paying  the  penalty  of  hav- 
ing married  the  wrong  man.  And  she  was  to  blame.  What- 
ever the  compulsion  put  upon  her,  she  ought  to  have  with- 
stood it.  There  was  no  situation  in  life  f I'om  which  it  was  not 
possible  to  escape.  Had  he  not  found  a  way  out  of  a  situation 
essentially  the  same  ?  Thus  a  certain  high  pride  in  his  own 
conduct  took  possession  of  him  even  in  the  presence  of  Kate's 
pain. 

But  his  tenderness  fought  with  his  self-righteousness.  He 
looked  at  her  piteous  face  and  his  strength  almost  ebbed  away. 
She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  and  affectionate  pity  almost  over- 
whelmed him.  Once  or  twice  she  seemed  about  to  say  some- 
thing, but  she  did  not  speak,  and  he  said  little.     Yet  it  wanted 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  285 

all  his  resolution  not  to  take  hor  in  liis  arms  and  comfort  her, 
not  to  mingle  his  tears  with  hers,  not  to  tell  her  of  six  months 
spent  in  vain  in  the  ell'ort  to  wipe  her  out  of  his  heart,  not  to 
whisper  of  cheerless  days  and  of  nijjrhts  made  desolate  witii 
the  repetition  of  her  name.  But  no,  he  would  be  stronger 
than  that.  It  was  not  yet  too  late  to  walk  the  path  of  honour. 
He  would  stand  no  longer  between  husband  and  wife. 

Pete  came  back,  bringiug  Grannie  and  Ca3sar.  The  par- 
son arrived  soon  after  them.  Kate  was  sitting  with  the  child 
in  her  lap,  and  brooding  over  it  like  a  bird  above  its  nest. 
The  child  was  still  sleeping  the  sleep  of  health  and  innocence, 
but  the  mother's  eyes  were  wild. 

"  Bogh,  bogh  !  ■'  said  Grannie,  and  she  kissed  her  daughter. 
Kate  made  no  response.  Nancy  Joe  grew  red  about  the  eye- 
lids and  began  to  blow  her  nose. 

"  Here's  the  prazon,  darling,"  w^hispered  Pete,  and  Kate 
rose  to  her  feet.  The  company  rose  with  her.  and  stood  in  a 
half-circle  before  the  fire.  It  was  now  between  daylight  and 
dark,  and  the  firelight  flashed  in  their  faces. 

'*  Are  the  godfather  and  godmothers  present  ? ''  the  parson 
asked. 

"  Mr.  Christian  will  stand  godfather,  parzon ;  and  Nancy 
and  Grannie  will  be  godmothers." 

Nancy  took  the  child  out  of  Kate's  arms,  and  the  service 
for  private  baptism  began  with  the  tremendous  words,  "Dearly 
beloved,  forasmuch  as  all  men  are  conceived  and  born  in 
sin " 

The  parson  stopped.  Kate  had  staggered  and  almost  fallen. 
Pete  put  his  arm  around  her  to  keep  her  up,  and  then  the 
service  went  on. 

Presently  the  parson  turned  to  Philip  with  a  softening 
voice  and  an  inclination  of  the  head. 

"  Do.st  thou,  in  the  name  of  this  child,  renounce  the  devil 
and  all  his  works,  the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world, 
with  all  covetous  desires  of  the  same,  and  the  carnal  de- 
sires of  the  flesh,  so  that  thou  wilt  not  follow  nor  be  led  by 
them  ? " 

And  Philip  answered,  in  a  firm,  low  voice,  "I  renounce 
them  all." 

The  pai*son  took  the  child  from  Nancy.  "Name  this 
child." 


THE   MAXXMAN. 

Nancy  looked  at  Kate,  but  Kate,  who  was  breath  iug  vio- 
lently, gave  no  sign. 

"  Kate,"  whispered  Pete  ;  "  Kate,  of  coorse." 

"  Katherine,"'  said  Nancy,  and  in  that  name  the  child  was 
baptized. 

Dr.  Mylechreest  came  in  as  the  service  ended.  Grannie 
held  little  Katherine  up  to  him,  and  he  controlled  his  face  and 
looked  at  her. 

"There's  not  much  amiss  with  the  child,"  he  said. 

'•  I  knew  it,"  shouted  Pete. 

''  But  perhaps  the  mother  is  a  little  weak  and  nervous,"  he 
added  quietly. 

"  Coorse  she  is,  the  bogh,"  cried  Pete. 

"  Let  her  see  more  company,"  said  the  doctor. 

''She  shall,"  said  Pete. 

"If  that  doesn't  do,  send  her  away  for  awhile." 

"I  will." 

"  Fresh  scenes,  fresh  society ;  out  of  the  island,  by  prefer- 
ence." 

-I'm  willing." 

"  She'll  come  back  another  woman." 

"  I'll  put  up  with  the  same  one,"  said  Pete  ;  and,  while  the 
company  laughed,  he  flung  open  the  door,  and  cried  "  Come 
in  I "  and  half  a  dozen  men  who  had  been  waiting  outside 
trooped  into  the  hall.  They  entered  with  shy  looks  because 
of  the  presence  of  great  people. 

"  Now  for  a  pull  of  jough,  Nancy,"  cried  Pete. 

•'Not  too  much  excitement  either,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
Avith  that  warning  he  departed.  The  parson  went  with  him. 
Philip  had  slipped  out  first,  unawares  to  anybody.  Grannie 
carried  little  Katherine  to  the  kitchen,  and  bathed  her  before 
the  fire.  Kate  was  propped  up  with  pillows  in  the  armcliair 
in  the  corner.  Then  Nancy  brought  the  ale.  and  Pete  wel- 
comed it  with  a  shout.     Caesar  looked  alarmed  and  rose  to  go. 

'"  The  drink's  your  own,  sir,"  said  Pete  ;  "  stop  and  taste  it." 

But  Caesar  couldn't  stay  ;  it  would  scarcely  be  proper. 

"  You  don't  christen  your  first  granddaughter  every  day," 
said  Pete.  *'  Enjoy  yourself  while  you're  alive,  sir  ;  you'll  be 
a  long  time  dead." 

Caesar  disappeared,  but  the  rest  of  the  company  took  Pete's 
counsel,  and  began  to  make  themselves  comfortable. 


MAN    AND    WIFl-:.  287 

"The  last  christening  I  was  at  was  yesterday,"  said  J ol in 
the  Clerk.  "It  was  Christian  Killip's  little  one,  before  she 
was  married,  and  it  took  the  water  same  as  any  other  child." 

"  Tlie  last  christening  I  was  at  was  my  own,"  said  Black 
Tom,  "  when  I  was  made  an  inheriter,  but  I've  never  inheritid 

yet." 

"That's  truth  enough,"  said  an  asthmatic  voice  from  the 
backstairs. 

''  Well,  the  last  christening  I  was  at  was  at  Kimberley." 
said  Pete, ''  and  I  was  the  parzon  myself  that  day.  Yes,  though, 
Parzon  Pete.  And  godfather  and  godmother  as  well,  and  the 
baby  was  Peter  Quilliam,  too.  Aw,  it  was  no  laughing  matter 
at  all.  There's  always  a  truck  of  women  about  a  compound, 
hanging  on  to  the  boys  like  burrs.  Dirty  little  trousses  of  a 
rule,  but  human  creatures  for  all.  One  of  them  had  a  child 
by  somebody,  and  then  she  came  to  die,  and  couldn't  take  rest 
because  it  hadn't  been  christened.  There  wasn't  a  pazon  for 
fifty  miles,  anywhere,  and  it  was  night-time,  too,  and  the 
woman  was  stretched  by  the  camp-fire  and  sinking.  'What's 
to  be  done  ? '  says  the  men.  'Fll  do  it,'  says  I,  and  I  did.  One 
of  the  fellows  got  a  breakfast  can  of  water  out  of  the  river, 
and  I  dipped  my  hand  in  it.  '  What's  the  name,'  says  I  ;  but 
the  poor  soul  was  too  far  gone  for  spaking.  So  I  gave  the 
child  my  own  name,  though  I  didn't  know  the  mother  from 
Noah's  aunt,  and  the  big  chaps  standing*  round  bareheaded 
began  to  blubber  like  babies.  '  I  baptize  thee,  Peter  Quilliam, 
in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  Amen.'  Then  the  girl  died  happy  and  aisy,  and  what 
for  shouldn't  she  ?  The  words  were  the  same,  and  the  water 
was  the  same,  and  if  the  hand  wasn't  as  clane  as  usual,  maybe 
Him  that's  above  wouldn't  bother  about  the  diff' ranee." 

Kate  got  up  with  a  flush  on  her  cheeics.  The  room  had 
become  too  close.  Pete  helped  her  into  the  parlour,  where  a 
bright  fire  was  burning,  then  propped  and  wrapped  her  up 
afresh,  and,  at  her  own  entreaty,  returned  to  his  guests.  The 
company  had  increased  by  this  time,  and  there  were  women 
and  girls  among  them.  They  went  on  to  sing  and  to  play^ 
and  at  last  to  dance. 

Kate  heard  them.  Through  the  closed  door  between  the 
hall  and  the  parlour  their  merriment  came  to  her.  At  inter- 
vals Pete  put  in  his  head,  brimming  over  with  laughter,  and 


288  THE  MANXMAN. 

cried  in  a  loud  whisper,  ''  Did  you  hear  that,  Kate  ?  It's 
rich  ! " 

At  length  Philip  came,  too,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  a 
cardboard  box  in  the  other.  ''  The  godfather's  present  to  little 
Katherine,"  he  said. 

Kate  opened  the  lid,  and  drew  out  a  cliild's  hood  in  scarlet 
plush. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said  vacantly. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  goodness,"  he  answered  ;  and  he 
turned  to  go. 

"  Wait,"  she  faltered.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
Shut  the  door." 


XI. 

Philip  turned  pale.     "  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  at  first  she  could  not. 

"  Are  you  unhappy,  Kate  ? "  he  faltered. 

"  Can't  you  see  ? "  she  answered. 

He  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  leaned  his  face  on  his  hands. 
"  Yes,  we  have  both  suffered,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Why  did  you  let  me  marry  him  ?  " 

Philip  raised  his  head.     "  How  could  I  have  hindered  you  ? " 

"  How  ?  Do  you  ask  me  how  ? "  She  spoke  with  some 
bitterness,  but  he  answered  quietly. 

''  I  tried,  Kate,  but  I  could  do  nothing.  You  seemed  deter- 
mined. Do  Tvhat  I  would  to  prevent,  to  delay,  to  stop  your 
marriage  altogether,  the  more  you  hastened  and  hurried  it. 
Then  I  thought  to  myself.  Well,  perhaps  it  is  best.  She  is 
trying  to  forget  and  forgive,  and  begin  again.  What  right 
have  I  to  stand  in  her  way  ?  Haven't  I  wronged  her  enough 
already  ?  A  good  man  offers  her  his  love,  and  she  is  taking  it. 
Let  her  do  so,  if  she  can,  God  help  her  !  I  may  suffer,  but  I 
am  nothing  to  her  now.     Let  me  go  my  way." 

She  put  her  arms  on  the  table,  and  hid  her  face  in  them. 
''  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  said. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  slowly.  "  If  it  is  my  presence  here  that 
hurts  you,  Kate,  I  will  go  away.  It  has  been  but  a  painful 
pleasure  to  come,  and  I  have  been  forced  to  take  it.  You  will 
acquit  me  of  coming  of  my  own  choice,  Kate.  But  I  will  not 
torment  you.     I  will  go  away,  and  never  come  again." 


MAN   AND    WIFK.  289 

She  lifted  her  face,  and  said  in  a  jia-ssionate  whisper,  "Take 
me  with  you." 

He  shook  his  liead.  ''  That's  inipossil)lo,  Kate.  Yon  are 
married  now.  Your  luisband  loves  you  dearly.  He  is  a  bet- 
ter man  than  I  am,  a  thousand,  thousand  times." 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  he  is  ?  "  she  cried, 
throwing  herself  back.  "  That's  why  I  can't  live  with  him. 
It's  killing  me.  I  tell  you  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  cried,  risinpr  to 
her  feet.  "  Love  me  !  Haven't  I  tried  to  make  myself  love 
hun.  Haven't  I  tried  to  be  a  good  wife  ?  I  can't — I  can't. 
He  never  speaks  but  he  torments  me.  Nothing  can  hapi)en 
but  it  cuts  me  through  and  through.  I  can't  live  in  this 
house.  The  walls  are  crushing  me,  the  ceiling  is  falling  on 
me,  the  air  is  stifling  me.  I  tell  you  I  shall  die  if  you  do  not 
take  me  out  of  it.     Take  me,  Philip,  tiike  me,  take  me  !  " 

Slie  caught  him  by  the  arm  imploringly,  but  he  only 
dropped  his  head  down  between  both  hands,  saying  in  a  deep 
thick  voice, ''  Hush,  Kate,  hush !  I  cannot  and  I  will  not.  You 
are  mad  to  think  of  it." 

Then  she  sank  down  into  the  chair  again,  breathless  and 
inert,  and  sobbing  deep,  low  sobs.  The  sound  of  dancing 
came  from  the  hall,  with  cries  of  ''  Hooch  !  "  and  the  voice  of 
Pete  shouting — 

"  nit  the  floor  with  heel  and  toe 
Till  heaven  help  the  boords  below." 

"  Yes,  I  am  mad,  or  soon  will  be,"  she  said  in  a  hard  way. 
"  I  thought  of  that  this  morning  when  I  cros.sed  the  river 
coming  home  from  church.  It  would  soon  be  over  there,  I 
thought.  No  more  trouble,  no  more  dreams,  no  more  waking 
in  the  night  to  hear  the  breathing  of  the  one  beside  me,  and 
the  voice  out  of  the  darkness  crying " 

"Kiite,  what  are  you  saying  ?  "  interrupted  Philip. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  think  I'm  a  bad  woman  because  I  ask 
you  take  me  away  from  my  husband.  If  I  were  that,  I  could 
brazen  it  out  perhaps,  and  live  on  here,  and  pretend  to  forget  ; 
many  a  woman  does,  they  say.  And  I'm  not  afraid  that  he 
will  ever  find  me  out  either.  I  have  only  to  close  my  lijjs, 
and  he  will  never  know.  But  /shall  know,  Philip  Ciiristian," 
she  said,  with  a  defiant  look  into  his  eyes  as  he  rai.sed  them. 

Her  reproaches  hurt  him  less  than  her  piteous  entreaties, 


290  THE   MANXMAN. 

and  in  a  moment  she  was  sobbing  again.  "  Oh,  what  can  God 
do  but  let  me  die  !  I  thought  He  would  when  the  child  came; 
but  He  did  not,  and  then — am  I  a  wicked  woman,  after  all  ? — 
I  prayed  that  He  would  take  my  innocent  bab3\  anyway." 

But  she  dashed  the  tears  away  in  anger  at  her  weakness, 
and  said,  ''  I'm  not  a  bad  woman.  Philip  Christian  ;  and  that's 
why  I  won  t  live  here  any  longer.  There  is  something  you 
have  never  guessed,  and  I  have  never  told  you  ;  but  I  must 
tell  you  now,  for  I  can  keep  my  secret  no  longer." 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  noise  in  his  ears  that  was  like 
the  flapping  of  wings  in  the  dark. 

"  Your  secret.  Kate  ?  " 

"  How  happy  I  was,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  was  to  blame 
— I  loved  you  so,  and  was  so  fearful  of  losing  you.  Perhaps 
you  thought  of  all  that  had  passed  between  us  as  something  that 
would  go  back  and  back  as  time  went  on  and  on.  But  it  has 
been  coming  the  other  way  ever  since.  Yes.  and  as  long  as  I 
live  and  as  long  as  the  child  lives " 

Her  voice  quivered  like  the  string  of  a  bow  and  stopped. 
He  rose  to  his  feet. 

''  The  child,  Kate  ?    Did  you  say  the  child  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  then  she  muttered,  with 
her  head  down,  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  was  something  you 
had  never  guessed  ?  " 

"  And  is  it  that  ?  "  he  said  in  a  fearful  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  You  are  not  deceiving  yourself  ?  This  is 
not  hysteria  ? " 

"No." 

"  You  mean  that  the  child " 

"Yes." 

His  questions  had  come  in  gasps,  like  short  breakers  out  of 
a  rising  sea  ;  her  answers  had  fallen  like  the  minute-gun 
above  it.  Then,  in  the  silence,  Pete's  voice  came  through  the 
wall.     He  was  singing  a  rough  old  ditty — 

"  It  was  to  Covent  Gardens  I  chanced  for  to  go. 
To  see  some  of  the  prettiest  flowers  which  in  the  gardens  grow." 

Nancy  came  in  with  a  scuttle  of  coals.  "The  lil  one's 
asleep,"  she  said,  going  down  on  her  knees  at  the  fire.  She  had 
left  the  door  ajar,  and  Pete's  song  was  rolling  into  the  room — 


MAN    AM)    WinO.  291 

"  Tlie  first  was  lovely  Nniicy,  so  dclii-ato  and  fair. 
Till'  other  wjis  a  vargin,  aiul  she  did  laurels  wear." 

"  Grannie  bathed  her,  and  she's  like  a  lil  angel  in  the  cot 
there,''  said  Nancy.  "  And,  '  Dear  heart  alive,  Grannie,'  says 
I,  '  the  straipflit  she's  like  her  father  when  she's  sleepinnf,'" 

Nancy  hrusliid  the  lioarth  and  went  otT.  As  slie  closed  the 
door,  Pete's  voice  ebhed  out. 

Philip's  lips  trembled,  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  flooi-,  he 
grew  very  pale,  he  tried  to  speak  and  could  not.  All  his  self- 
pride  was  overthrown  in  a  moment.  The  honour  in  which  he 
had  tried  to  stand  erect  as  in  a  suit  of  armour  was  stripped 
away.  Unwittingly  he  had  been  laying  up  an  account  with 
Nature.  He  had  forgotten  that  a  sin  has  consequences.  Na- 
ture did  not  forget.  She  had  kept  her  own  reckoning.  He 
had  struggled  to  believe  that  after  all  he  was  a  moral  man,  a 
free  man  ;  but  Nature  was  a  sterner  moralist  ;  she  had  chained 
him  to  the  past,  she  had  held  him  to  himself. 

He  was  still  by  the  fire  with  his  head  down.  "  Did  you  know 
this  before  you  were  married  to  Pete  ?  "  he  asked,  without  look- 
ing up. 

''Hadn't  I  wronged  him  enough  without  that?"  she  an- 
swered. 

''  But  did  you  think  of  it  as  something  that  might  perhaps 
occur  i" " 

'•And  if  I  did,  what  then  T' 

"  If  you  had  told  me,  Kate,  nothing  and  nobody  should  have 
come  between  us — no,"  he  said  in  a  decisive  voice,  "not  Pete 
nor  all  the  world." 

"And  wasn't  it  your  own  duty  to  remember  ?  Was  it  for 
me  to  come  to  you  and  say,  'Philip,  something  niay  happen,  I 
am  frightened.' " 

Was  this  the  compulsion  that  had  driven  lur  into  marriage 
with  the  wrong  man  i  Was  it  all  hysteria  ^  Could  she  be 
sure  ?  In  any  case  she  could  not  think  this  awful  thought  and 
continue  to  live  with  her  husband. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  with  his  \iom\  still  down.  "You 
cannot  live  here  any  longer.    This  life  of  deception  must  end." 

"  Then  you  will  take  me  away,  Philij)  ? " 

"I  must,  God  forgive  me,  I  must.  1  tlmujrht  it  would  be 
sin.  But  that  was  long  ago.  It  will  br  i)unishment.  If  I  had 
known  before — and  I  have  been  coming  liere  time  and  again — 


292  THE  MANXMAN. 

looking  on  his  happiness— but  if  I  had  once  dreamt— and  then 
only  an  hour  ago — the  oath  at  its  baptism — O  God  !  " 

Her  tears  were  flowing  again,  but  a  sort  of  serenity  had 
fallen  on  her  now. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  whispered.  "  I  tried  to  keep  it  to  my- 
self  " 

"You  could  not  keep  it  ;  you  ought  never  to  have  kept  it 
so  long  ;  the  finger  of  Grod  Himself  ought  to  have  burnt  it  out 
of  you." 

He  spoke  harshly,  and  she  felt  pain  ;  but  there  was  a  secret 
joy  as  well. 

"I  am  ruining  you,  Philip,"  she  said,  leaning  over  him. 

"We  are  both  drifting  to  ruin,  Katherine,"  he  answered 
hoarsely.  He  was  an  abandoned  hulk,  with  anchorage  gone 
and  no  hand  at  the  helm — broken,  blind,  rolling  to  destruction. 

"  I  can  offer  you  nothing,  Kate,  nothing  but  a  hidden  life, 
a  life  in  the  dark.  If  you  come  to  me  you  will  leave  a  hus- 
band w^ho  worships  you  for  one  to  whom  your  life  can  never 
be  joined.  You  will  exchange  a  life  of  respect  by  the  side  of 
a  good  man  for  a  life  of  humiliation,  a  life  of  shame.  How 
can  it  be  otherwise  now  ?    It  is  too  late,  too  late  !  " 

'*  Don't  think  of  that,  Philip.  If  you  love  me  there  can  be 
no  humiliation  and  no  shame  for  me  in  anything.  I  love  you, 
dear,  I  cannot  help  but  love  you.  Only  love  me  a  little,  Philip, 
just  a  little,  dearest,  and  I  will  never  care — no,  I  will  never, 
never  care  whatever  happens." 

Her  passionate  devotion  swept  down  all  his  scruples.  His 
throat  thickened,  his  eyes  grew  dim.  She  put  one  arm  ten- 
derly on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  will  follow  you  wherever  you  must  go,"  she  said.  "  You 
are  my  real  husband,  Philip,  and  always  have  been.  We  will 
love  one  another,  and  that  will  make  up  for  everything. 
There  is  nothing  I  will  not  do  to  make  you  forget.  If  you 
must  go  away — far  away — no  matter  where — I  will  go  with 
you— and  the  child  as  well — and  if  we  must  be  poor,  I'll  work 
with  you." 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  as  he  crouched  with  buried 
face  by  the  fire.  And.  in  the  silence,  Pete's  muffled  voice  came 
again  through  the  wall,  singing  his  rugged  ditty — 

"  I'm  not  engaged  to  any  young  man,  I  solemnly  do  swear, 
For  I  mane  to  be  a  vargin  and  still  the  laurels  wear." 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  293 

Unconsciously  tlieir  liaiuls  touclicd  and  (lieir  lin;,aM-s  iiilrr- 
twined. 

"It  will  break  his  licai-t."  lie  muttered. 

She  only  ofrasped  his  hand  tlie  closer,  and  crouched  hesidc 
him.  They  were  like  two  g-uilty  souls  at  the  altar  steps,  listen- 
ing: to  the  cheerful  bell  that  swing's  in  the  tower  for  the  happy 
world  outside. 

The  door  opened  with  a  han;,^  and  Pet(^  rolUnl  in,  heavinj,' 
with  lauf^hter. 

"  Did  you  think  it  was  an  earthwake,  Phili})  ?  "  he  shouted, 
''or  a  blackbird  a  bit  tipsy,  eh  ?  Bless  nie,  man,  it's  good  of 
you,  thoufi^h,  sitting-  up  in  the  chimney  there  same  as  a  good 
ould  jackdaw,  keeping  the  poor  wife  company  when  her  selfish 
ould  husband  is  flirting  his  tail  like  a  stonechat.  The  com- 
pany's going  now,  Kitty.  Will  they  say  good-night  to  you  ? 
No  ?  Have  it  as  you  like,  bogh.  You're  looking  tired,  any- 
way. Dempster,  the  boys  are  asking  when  the  ceremony  is 
coming  off,  and  will  you  come  home  to  Ramsey  that  night  ? 
But,  sakes  alive,  man,  your  eye  is  splashed  with  blood  as  bad 
as  the  egg  of  a  robin." 

In  his  suffering  and  degradation,  Philip  felt  as  if  he  wished 
the  earth  to  open  and  swallow  him. 

"  Bloodshot,  is  it  ? "  he  said.  ''  It's  nothing.  The  cere- 
mony? I'm  to  take  the  oath  to-morrow  at  three  o'clock  at  tlie 
Special  Council  in  Douglas.  Yes,  I'll  come  back  to  Ballure 
for  the  night  ? " 

"  Driving,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Six  o'clock,  maybe  ? " 

"Perhaps  sev^en  to  eight." 

"  That's  all  right.  Mortal  inquisitive  the  boys  are,  though. 
It's  in  the  breed  of  these  Manx  ones,  you  know.  Laxey  way, 
now  ? " 

"I'll  drive  })y  St.  John's,"  said  Philip. 

With  a  look  of  wondrous  wisdom,  and  a  knowing  wink  at 
Kate  across  Philip's  back,  Pete  went  out.  Then  there  was 
mucli  talking  in  low  tones  in  the  hall,  and  on  the  jjatlis  out- 
side the  house. 

Philip  understood  what  it  meant.  He  glanced  back  at  the 
door,  leaned  over  to  Kate,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  without  look- 
ing into  her  eyes — 


294  THE  MAXXMAN. 

"  The  carriage  shall  come  at  half -past  seven.  It  will  stand 
for  a  momeDt  in  the  Parsonage  Lane,  and  then  drive  back  to 
Douglas  by  way  of  Laxey." 

His  face  was  broken  and  ugly  with  shame  and  humiliation. 
As  she  saw  this  she  thought  of  her  confession,  and  it  seemed 
odious  to  her  now  ;  but  there  was  an  immense  relief  in  the 
feeling  that  the  crisis  was  over. 

Pete  was  shouting  at  the  porch,  "  Good-night,  all  !  Good- 
night ! " 

"  Good-night  1 "  came  back  in  many  voices. 

Grannie  came  in  muffled  up  to  the  throat.  "  However  am 
I  to  get  back  to  Sulby,  and  your  father  gone  these  two  hours  ? " 
she  said. 

"  Not  him,"  said  Pete,  coming  behind  with  one  eye  screwed 
up  and  a  linger  to  his  nose.  "  The  ould  man's  been  on  the 
back-stairs  all  night,  listening  and  watching  wonderful.  His 
bark's  tremenjous,  but  his  bite  isn't  worth  mentioning." 

And  then  a  plaintive  voice  came  from  the  hall,  saying, 
"  Are  you  never  coming  home,  mother  ?  I'm  worn  out  wait- 
ing for  you." 

A  little  patch  of  youth  had  blossomed  in  Grannie  since  the 
baby  came. 

''  Good-night,  Pete,"  she  cried  from  the  gate,  ''  and  many 
happ3^  returns  of  the  christening-day," 

'•  One  was  enough  for  yourself,  mother,''  said  Caesar,  and 
then  his  voice  went  rumbling  down  the  street. 

Philip  had  come  out  into  the  hall.  "  You're  time  enough 
yet,"  said  Pete.  "  A  glass  first  ?  No?  I've  sent  over  to  the 
'  Mitre  '  for  your  mare.  There  she  is  ;  that's  her  foot  on  the 
path.  I  must  be  seeing  you  off,  anyway.  Where's  that  lan- 
tern, at  all ? " 

They  stepped  out.  Pete  held  the  light  while  Philip 
mounted,  and  then  he  guided  him,  under  the  deep  shadow  of 
the  old  tree,  to  the  road. 

"  Fine  night  for  a  ride,  Phil.  Listen  !  That's  the 
churning  of  the  nightjar  going  up  to  Ballure  glen.  Well, 
good-night  !  Good-night,  and  God  bless  you,  old  fel- 
low ! " 

Kate  inside  heard  the  deadened  sound  of  Philip's  "  Good- 
night," the  crunch  of  the  mare's  hoofs  on  the  gravel  and  the 
clink  of  the  bit  in  her  teeth.     Then  the  porch  door  closed  with 


MAN    AND    Wll-i:.  .jU.") 

a  hollcnv  vihration  like  tliat  of  a  vault,  tlio  cliaiii  rattlcjl  across 
it.  and  IVlo  was  l)ac-k  in  tho  rooni. 

"  What  a  iii<>ht  we've  had  of  it  !     And  now  to  bed." 


XII. 

Kate  was  up  early  the  next  niornin;]^,  but  Pete  was  stirrinpf 
before  her.  As  soon  as  he  had  heard  the  news  of  Philip's  ap- 
pointmcMit  he  had  organised  a  drum  and  brass  band  to  honour 
the  day  of  the  ceremony.  The  brass  had  been  borrowed  from 
Laxey,  but  the  drum  had  been  bought  by  Pete. 

•'Let's  have  a  good  sizable  drum,"  said  he  ;  ''something 
with  a  voice  in  it,  not  a  bit  of  a  toot,  going  otf  with  a  pop  like 
bladder-wrack." 

The  parchment  was  three  feet  across,  the  steel  rings  round 
it  were  like  the  hoops  of  a  dog-cart,  and  the  black  drumsticks, 
according  to  Pete,  were  like  the  bullet  heads  of  two  niggers. 
Jonaique  Jelly  played  the  clarionet,  and  Jolio  the  Widow 
played  the  trombone,  but  the  drum  was  the  leading  instru- 
ment. Pete  himself  ])layed  it.  He  pounded  it,  boomed  it, 
thundered  it.  While  he  did  so,  his  eyes  blazed  with  rapture. 
A  big  heroic  soul  spoke  out  of  the  drum  for  Pete.  With  the 
strap  over  his  shoulders,  he  did  not  trouble  much  about  the 
tune.  When  the  heart  leapt  inside  his  breast,  down  came  the 
nigger  heads  on  to  the  mighty  protuberance  in  front  of  it  ; 
and  surely  that  was  the  end  and  aim  of  all  nmsic. 

The  band  practised  in  the  cabin  which  Pete  had  set  u])  for 
a  summer-house  in  the  middle  of  his  garden.  They  met  at 
daybreak  that  morning  for  the  last  of  their  reheai'sals.  And, 
being  up  before  their  morning  meal,  they  were  constrained  to 
smoke  and  drink  as  well  as  play.  This  they  did  out  of  a  sin- 
gle pipe  and  a  single  pot.  which  each  took  up  from  the  t:ible 
in  turn  as  it  fell  to  his  part  to  have  a  few  bars'  rest. 

While  their  muffled  melody  came  to  the  house  thn)ugh  the 
wooden  walls  and  the  dense  smoke,  Kate  was  cooking  break- 
fast. She  did  everything  carefully,  for  she  was  calmer  tlian 
usual,  and  felt  relieved  of  the  load  that  had  oppressed  her. 
But  once  she  leaned  her  head  on  the  mantekshelf  while  stoop- 
ing over  the  frying-pan,  and  looked  vacantly  into  the  fire  ; 
and   once    she    raised    herself   up    from    the    table-cloth    at 


296  THE  MANXMAN. 

the  sound  of  the  drum,  and  pressed  her  hand  hard  on  her 
brow. 

The  child  awoke  in  the  bedroom  above  and  cried.  Nancy 
Joe  went  flip-flapping  upstairs,  and  brought  her  down  with 
much  clucking  and  cackling.  Kate  took  the  child  and  fed  her 
from  a  feeding-bottle  which  had  been  warming  on  the  oven 
top.  She  was  very  tender  with  the  little  one.  kissing  all  its 
extremities  in  the  way  that  women  have,  worrying  its  legs, 
and  putting  its  feet  into  her  mouth. 

Pete  came  in,  hot  and  perspiring,  and  Kate  handed  the  child 
back  to  Nancy. 

"  Hould  hard^''  cried  Pete ;  "  don't  take  her  off  yet.  Give 
me  a  hould  of  her,  the  lil  rogue.  My  sailor  I  What  a  child  it 
is,  though  I  Look  at  that,  now.  She's  got  a  grip  of  my  thumb. 
What  a  fist,  to  be  sure  I  It's  lying  in  my  hand  like  a  meg. 
Did  you  stick  a  piece  of  dough  on  the  wall  at  your  last  baking, 
Nancy  ?  Just  as  well  to  keep  the  evil  eye  off.  Coo — oo— oo ! 
She's  going  it  reg'lar,  same  as  the  tide  of  a  summer's  day.  By 
jing,  Kitty,  Iwdidn't  think  there  was  so  much  fun  in  babies." 

Kate,  seated  at  the  table,  was  pouring  out  the  tea,  and  a 
sudden  impulse  seized  her. 

"  That's  the  way,"  she  said.  ''  First  the  wife  is  everything ; 
but  the  child  comes,  and  then  good-bj'e  to  the  mother  who 
brought  it." 

"  No,  by  gough !  "  said  Pete.  "  The  child  is  eighteen  carat 
goold  for  the  mother's  sake,  but  the  mother  is  di'monds  for 
sake  of  the  child.  If  I  lost  that  little  one,  Kitty,  it  would  be 
like  losing  the  half  of  you." 

''  Losing,  indeed  I "  said  Nancy.  "  Who's  talking  about  los- 
ing ?     Does  she  look  like  it,  bless  her  lil  heart  I  " 

"  Take  her  into  the  kitchen.  Nancy,"  said  Kate. 

''  Going  to  have  a  rare  do  to-day,''  said  Pete,  over  a  mouth- 
ful. "  I'm  off  for  Douglas,  to  see  Philip  made  Dempster. 
Coming  home  with  himself  by  way  of  St.  John's.  It's  all  ar- 
ranged, woman.  Boys  to  meet  the  carriage  by  Kirk  Christ 
Lezayre  at  seven  o'clock  smart.  Then  out  I'm  getting,  laying 
hould  of  the  drum,  the  band  is  striking  up,  and  we're  bringing 
him  into  Ramsey  triumphant.  Oh,  we'll  be  doing  it  grand," 
said  Pete,  blowing  over  the  rim  of  his  saucer.  "  John  the 
Clerk  is  tremenjous  on  the  trombones,  and  there's  no  bating 
Jonaique  with  the  clar'net — the  man  is  music  to  his  little  back- 


MAN    AN1>    WIFJO.  o.,; 

bone.  Tlio  town  will  he  ('(tmiiiu:  out  too,  and  tlic  lislicnncn 
slioutintr  like  one  man.  We're  l)oun(l  to  let  tlu'  (rovcrnor  srr 
we  mane  it.  A  friend's  a  friend,  say  I,  and  we're  for  buckinji^ 
up  for  tbe  man  that's  buckin<^  up  for  us.  .\ih\  wlicn  l»e  p^oes 
to  the  Tynwald  Coort  there,  it'll  be  lockjaw  and  the  measles 
with  some  of  them.  If  the  ould  Governor's  g^ot  a  tonj^ue  like 
a  file,  Philip's  g-ot  a  ton<j:ue  like  a  scythe — he'll  mow  th(Mn 
down.  '  No  harbour-dues,'  .says  he,  '  till  we've  a  raisonable 
hope  of  harbour  improvements.  Build  your  emlKinkmcnts  for 
your  trip])ers  in  Doug-las  if  you  like,  but  don't  ask  the  fisher- 
men to  pay  for  them.'  " 

Pete  wiped  his  mouth  and  charged  his  pipe.  "  It'll  be  a 
rare  ould  dust,  but  we're  not  thinkings  of  ourselves  only, 
thouofh.  Aw,  no,  no.  If  there  wasn't  nothinp:  doing-  we 
would  be  giving  him  a  little  tune  for  all,  coming  home  Demp- 
ster." 

Pete  lit  up.  "  My  sailor  I  It'll  be  a  ]>roud  man  I'll  be  this 
day,  Kitty.  Didn't  I  always  say  it  ?  '  He'll  be  the  first  Manx- 
man living,'  says  I  times  and  times,  and  he's  not  going  to  de- 
ceave  me  neither. " 

Kate  was  in  fear  lest  Pete  should  look  up  into  her  face. 
Catching  sight  of  a  rent  in  the  cloth  of  his  coat,  she  whipped 
out  her  needle  and  began  to  stitch  it  up,  bending  closely  over 
it. 

'*  What  an  eye  a  woman's  got.  now,  "  said  Pete.  "  That 
was  the  steel  of  the  drum  ragging  me  sideways  when  I  was  a 
bit  excited.  Bless  me,  Kitty,  there  won't  be  a  rag  left  at  me 
when  I  get  through  this  everin'.  They're  ter'ble  on  clothes  is 
drums.'' 

He  was  puffing  the  smoke  through  her  hair  as  she  knelt 
below  him.  "Well,  he  deserv^es  it  all.  My  sakes,  the  yeai-s 
I've  known  him !  Him  and  me  have  been  same  as  brothers. 
Yes,  have  we.  ever  since  I  was  a  slip  of  a  boy  in  jackets,  and 
we  went  nesting  on  Maughold  Head  together.  And  getting 
married  hasn't  been  making  no  ditFerence.  When  a  man 
marries  he  shortens  sail  usually,  and  pitches  out  some  ballast, 
but  not  me  at  all.  You're  taking  a  chill,  Kitty.  No?  Shud- 
dering any  way.  Chut  I  This  dress  is  like  paj)er;  you  should 
be  having  warmer  things  under  it.  Don't  be  going  out  to-day, 
darling,  but  to-night,  about  twenty-five  minutes  better  than 
seven,  just  open  the  door  and  listen.    We'll  be  agate  of  it  then 


99S  THE   MANXMAN. 

like  mad,  and  when  you're  hearing  the  drum  booming  you'll 
be  saying  to  yourself,  '  Pete's  there,  and  going  it  for  all  he 
knows. '  " 

'*  Oh,  Pete,  Pete  1  "  cried  Kate,  and  she  dropped  back  at  his 
feet. 

''  Why,  what's  this  at  all  ?  "  said  Pete. 

"  You've  been  very,  very  good  to  me,  Pete,  and  if  I  never 
see  you  again  3'ou'll  think  the  best  of  me,  will  you  not  ?  " 

She  had  an  impulse  to  tell  all — she  could  hardly  resist  it. 

He  smoothed  the  black  ripples  of  her  hair  back  from  her 
forehead,  and  said,  tenderly,  ''  She's  not  so  well  to-day,  that's 
it.  Her  eyes  are  bubbling  like  the  laver."  Then  aloud,  with 
a  laugh,  "  Never  see  me  again,  eh  ?  I'm  not  willing  to  share 
you  with  heaven  yet,  though.  But  I'll  have  to  be  doing  as  the 
doctor  was  saying — sending  you  to  England  aver.  I  will  now, 
I  will,"  he  said,  lifting  his  big  finger  thi'eateningly. 

She  slid  backwards  to  the  ground,  but  at  the  next  moment 
was  landed  on  Pete's  breast.  "  My  poor  lil  Kirry !  Not  will- 
ing to  stay  with  me,  eh  ?  Tut,  tut!  She'll  be  as  smart  as  ever, 
soon." 

She  drew  away  from  him  with  shame  and  self-reproach, 
mingled  with  that  old  feeling  of  personal  repulsion  which  she 
could  not  conquer. 

Then  the  gate  of  the  garden  clicked,  and  Eoss  Christian 
came  up  the  path.  "  He's  sticking  to  me  as  tight  as  a  limpet," 
said  Pete. 

'•Mr.  Quilliam,"  said  Eoss,  "  I  come  from  my  father  this 
time." 

"'Deed,  man,"  said  Pete. 

''He  is  a  little  pressed  for  money." 

"And  Mr.  Peter  Christian  sends  to  me  ?" 

"He  thought  you  might  like  to  lend  on  mortgage." 

"  On  Ballawhaine  ? '' 

Eoss  stammered  and  stuttered,  "  Well,  yes,  certainly,  as 
you  say,  on  Balla " 

"To  think,  to  think,"  muttered  Pete.  He  gazed  vacantly 
before  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  sharply,  "I've  no 
time  to  talk  of  it  now,  sir.  I'm  off  to  Douglas,  but  if  you  like 
to  stop  awhile  and  talk  of  it  with  Mrs.  Quilliam,  I'll  be  hear- 
ing everything  when  I  come  back.  Good-day,  Kate.  Take 
care  of  my  wife.     Good-day,  Naucy ;  look  after  my  two  girls 


MAN    AN1>    W I  I'll.  099 

wliile  Fill  awiiy.  And  Kitly,  bo^li  ''  (\vliisp('riM<i»,  "mind  y<»u 
send  to  Robbie  Cliicas,  llie  draper,  for  some  nice  warm  under- 
clothing. Good-bye!  Another!  Just  one  more '' (then  aloud) 
''Good-day  to  you,  sir,  good-day." 


XIII. 

".  .  .  He,  the  Spirit  Himself,  may  come 
When  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb." 

Philip  had  not  slept  at  Ballure.  The  house  was  in  dark- 
ness as  he  passed.  He  was  riding  to  Douglas.  It  is  sixteen 
miles  between  town  and  town,  six  of  them  over  the  steep 
headland  of  Kirk  Maughold.  Before  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  ascent  he  had  been  an  hour  on  the  road,  and  the  night 
was  near  to  morning.  He  hud  seen  no  one  after  leaving  Ram- 
sey, except  a  di'unken  miner  with  his  bundle  on  his  stick, 
marching  home  to  a  tipsy  travesty  of  some  brave  song. 

His  self  righteousness  was  overthrown;  his  pride  was  in 
the  dust.  Since  he  returned  home,  he  had  struggled  to  feel 
strong  and  easy  in  the  sense  of  being  an  honourable  man; 
but  now  he  was  thrown  violently  out  of  the  path  in  which  he 
had  meant  to  walk  rightly.  What  he  was  about  to  do  was 
necessary,  was  inevitable,  yet  in  his  relation  to  Kate  he  was 
in  the  position  of  an  immoral  man,  a  betrayer,  an  adulterer, 
with  a  vulgar  secret,  which  he  must  support  by  lying  and 
share  with  servants.  And  what  was  the  outlook  ?  What 
would  be  the  end  ^  Here  was  a  situation  from  which  there 
was  no  escape.  Let  there  be  no  false  glamoui*,  no  diguise.  no 
self-deception.  On  the  eve  of  his  promotion  to  the  dignities 
and  responsibilities  of  a  Judge,  he  was  taking  the  fii-st  step 
down  on  the  course  of  the  criminal ! 

The  moon  was  shining  at  the  full.  It  was  low  down  in  the 
sky,  on  his  right,  and  casting  his  shadow  on  to  the  road.  He 
walked  his  hoi*se  up  the  long  hill.  The  even  pace,  the  (piii't 
of  the  night,  the  drowsy  sounds  of  unseen  stream  and  far-olt' 
murmuring  sea  overcame  him  in  spite  of  liimself,  and  ho 
dozed  in  the  saddle.  As  he  reached  the  hilltop  tlie  level  step 
of  the  hoi'se  awoke  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  passing  that 
desolate  spot  on  the  bc^rder  of  parish  and  parish  which  is 
known  as  Tom  Alone's. 
20 


300  THE   MANXMAN. 

Opening  his  eyes,  without  realising  that  he  had  slept,  he 
thought  he  became  aware  of  another  horse  and  another  rider 
walking  by  his  side.  They  were  on  the  left  of  him,  going 
pace  for  pace,  stepping  along  with  him  like  his  shadow.  ''  It 
is  my  shadow,"  he  thought,  and  he  forced  up  his  head  to  look. 
Nothing  was  there  but  a  whitewashed  wall  that  fenced  a 
sheepfold.  The  moon  had  gone  under  the  mountains  on  the 
right,  and  the  night  would  have  been  dark  but  for  the  stars. 
With  an  astonishment  near  to  terror,  Philip  ginpped  the  sad- 
dle with  his  quaking  knees,  and  broke  his  horse  into  a  trot. 

When  the  hard  ride  had  brought  warmth  to  his  blood  and 
a  glow  to  his  cheeks,  he  told  himself  he  had  been  the  victim 
of  fancy.  It  was  nothing;  it  was  a  delusion  of  the  sight;  a 
mere  shadow  cast  off  by  his  distempered  brain.  He  was  pass- 
ing at  a  walking  pace  through  Laxey  by  this  time,  and  as  the 
horse's  feet  beat  up  the  echoes  of  the  sleeping  town,  his  heart 
grew  brave. 

Next  day,  at  noon,  he  was  talking  with  his  servant,  Jem-y- 
Lord,  in  his  rooms  in  Athol  Street.  He  had  lately  become 
tenant  of  the  entii'e  house.  They  were  in  his  old  chambers 
on  the  first  floor,  looking  on  to  the  churchyard. 

''  I  may  rely  on  you.  Jemmy  ?  " 

"You  may,  Deemster." 

His  voice  was  low  and  husky,  his  eyes  Avere  down,  he  was 
fumbling  the  papers  on  the  table.  "  Get  the  carriage,  a 
landau,  from  Shimmin's,  but  drive  it  yourself.  Be  at  Govern- 
ment offices  at  four — we'll  go  by  St.  John's.  If  there  is  any 
attempt  at  Eamsey  to  take  the  horse  out  of  the  carriage,  resist 
it.  I  will  alight  at  the  head  of  the  town.  Then  drive  on  to 
the  lane  between  the  chapel  and  Elm  Cottage.  The  moment 
the  lady  joins  you,  start  away.  Return  to  Laxey — are  the 
rooms  upstairs  ready  ? " 

"They  will  be." 

"The  two  in  front  of  your  own,  and  the  little  parlour  be- 
hind this.  We  shall  need  no  other  servants  — the  lady  will  be 
housekeeper." 

"I  quite  understand,  Deemster." 

Philip  turned  his  face  aside  and  spoke  thickly,  "And  you 
know  what  name " 

"I  know  what  name,  Deemster." 

"  You  have  no  objection  ? " 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  301 

"None  whatever.  Deemster." 

Philip  drew  a  lon<::  breath.  "  I  am  not  Deemster  yet,  Jem- 
my. Perhaps  it  nii<;lit  liavc  been  .  .  .  l)ut  God  knows.  You 
are  a  p^ood  fellow — I  shall  not  forj^et  it." 

He  made  a  motion  ius  if  to  dismiss  the  man,  l)ut  .lenuny  did 
not  go. 

'•  Betj  pardon,  your  honour " 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  Your  iK^nour  has  eaten  nothing  at  breakfast — and  the  bed 
wasn't  slept  in  last  night." 

"I  was  riding  late — then  I  had  work  to  do." 

'*But  I  heard  your  foot  on  the  floor — it  woke  me 
times." 

"  I  may  have  speeches  to  make  to-day.  .  .  .  Fetch  me  a 
glass  of  w^ater." 

Jemmy  brought  water-bottle  and  glass.  As  Philip  took 
the  water  an  icy  numbness  seemed  to  seize  his  arm.  "I — well, 
I — I  declare  1  can't  lift— ah  !  thanks." 

The  man  raised  Philip's  arm  to  his  mouth;  the  glass  rattled 
against  his  teeth  while  he  drank. 

"  Pardon,  your  honour.  You're  looking  ten  years  older 
lately.     The  sooner  this  day  is  over  the  better." 

"Sleep,  Jemmy— I  only  want  sleep.  I  must  have  a  long, 
long  sleep  at  Ballure  to-night." 

He  left  the  house  at  three  minutes  to  three,  carrying  his 
cloak  over  his  arm.  It  was  a  hot  day  at  the  beginning  of 
June,  and  when  he  stepped  out  at  the  door  the  air  of  the  street 
smote  his  face  like  a  blast  from  an  open  furnace.  He  reeled 
and  almost  fell.  The  sun's  heat  was  like  a  hx^d  on  his  head, 
its  dazzling  rays  made  his  sight  dim,  and  he  had  a  sound  in 
his  ears  like  running  water.  As  he  walked  down  the  sti'eet 
he  caught  his  wandering  reflection  in  the  shop  windows. 
*' Jemmy  was  right,"  he  thought.  ''My  worst  enemy  would 
not  accuse  me  of  looking  too  young  to-day." 

There  was  a  small  crowd  about  the  entrance  to  (Jovcrn- 
ment  oflices.  Carriages  were  driving  up,  discharging  tlicir 
occui)ants  and  going  on.  The  Bishoj),  tlie  .\ttorney  (ieneral. 
Anally  the  Governor  with  his  wife  and  daugliler  passed  into 
the  house.  In  the  commotion  of  these  arrivals  Pliilip  reached 
the  door  unobserved.  When  he  was  recognised,  there  was  n 
sudden  hush  of  voices,  and  then  a  low  buzz  of  gossip.     Ho 


3(12  THE   MANXMAN. 

walked  through  with  a  firm  step,  going  in  alone,  all  eyes  upon 
him. 

The  doorway  opens  on  a  narrow  passage,  which  is  neither 
wide  nor  very  light,  and  the  sunshine  without  made  the  gloom 
within  more  grey  and  uncertain.  As  Philip  stepped  over  the 
threshold  he  was  conscious  that  somebody  was  coming  out. 
When  he  had  taken  two  paces  more,  he  drew  up  sharply  with 
the  sense  of  walking  into  a  mirror.  At  the  next  instant  he 
saw  that  what  he  had  taken  for  the  reflection  of  his  own  face 
in  a  glass  was  the  actual  face  of  another  man. 

The  man  was  coming  out  as  he  went  in.  They  were  ap- 
proaching each  other.  At  two  paces  more  they  were  side  by 
side.  He  looked  at  the  man  with  creeping  horror.  The  man 
looked  at  him  with  amazement  and  dread.  Thus,  eye  to  eye, 
they  crossed  and  passed.  Then  each  turned  his  head  over  his 
shoulder  and  looked  after  the  other,  Philip  stepping  into  the 
gloom,  the  stranger  striding  into  the  light. 

At  the  next  moment  the  narrow  doorway  was  darkened  by 
a  ponderous  figure  rolling  through.  Then  a  heavy  hand  fell 
on  Philip's  shoulder,  and  a  hearth'  voice  exclaimed,  "Hilloa, 
Christian;  proud  to  see  you,  boy  !  You've  outstripped  old 
stick-in-the-mud;  but  I  always  knew  you  would  lead  me  the 
way  though.  .  .  .  Funking  a  bit,  are  you  ?  Hands  like  ice, 
anyw^ay.  Come  along — nothing  to  be  nervous  about — we're 
not  going  to  give  you  the  dose  of  Illiam  Dhone— don't  martyr 
the  Christians  these  days,  you  know." 

Is  was  Philip's  old  master,  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  Taking 
Philip's  arm,  he  was  for  swinging  him  along;  but  Philip,  still 
looking  towards  the  street,  said  falteringly,  "  Did  you,  perhaps, 
see  a  man — a  3'oung  man — going  out  at  the  door  ? " 

"  When  ? " 

*'  As  you  came  in." 

"  Was  there?  "  said  the  Clerk  dubiously  ;  then,  as  by  a  sud- 
den light,  "  Did  he  wear  a  round  hat  and  a  monkey-jacket  ? " 

"  Maybe— I  hardly  know — I  didn't  observe." 

"  That'll  be  the  man.  He's  been  at  me  half  the  morning 
for  admission  to  the  Council.  Said  he'd  known  you  all  his 
life.  Rough  as  a  thorn-bush,  but  somehow  I  couldn't  say  no 
to  the  fellow  at  last.     He  ought  to  be  inside,  though." 

"  It's  nothing,"  thought  Philip.  "  Only  another  shadow 
from  a  tired  V)rain.     Jemmv's  talk  about  my  altered  looks — 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  3O3 

the  reflection  in  the  shop-windows— tlie  sudden  gloom  after 
the  dazzling  sunlight— that's  all,  that's  all.  Sleep,  I  want 
sleep." 

When  the  Governor  took  his  seat  with  the  first  Deemster 
on  his  ri^ht,  and  motioned  Philip  to  the  chair  on  his  left,  an 
involuntiiry  nmrnuir  passed  over  the  chamber  at  the  contrast 
there  presented— the  one  Deemster  very  old,  witli  round,  rus- 
set face,  quick,  gleaming  eyes,  and  a  comfortahle,  youthful, 
even  merry  expression;  the  other,  very  young,  with  long,  pal- 
lid, powerful  face,  large  eyes,  and  a  tired  look  of  age. 

Philip  presented  his  commission  received  from  the  Home 
Secretary,  and  the  oath  of  ofhce  was  administered  to  him. 
Kissing  a  stained  copy  of  a  leather-bound  Testament,  he  re- 
peated the  words  after  the  Governor  in  a  thick  croak  that 
seemed  to  hack  the  air — 

"By  this  book,  and  by  the  holy  contents  thereof,  and  by 
the  wonderful  works  that  God  hath  miraculously  wrought  in 
heaven  above  and  on  the  earth  beneath  in  six  days  and  seven 
nights.  I,  Philip  Christian,  do  swear  that  I  will,  without  re- 
spect of  favour  or  friendship,  love  or  hate,  loss  or  gain,  con- 
sanguinity or  affinity,  envy  or  malice,  execute  the  laws  of  this 
Isle  justly,  betwixt  our  Sovereign  Lady  the  Queen  and  her  sub- 
jects within  this  Isle,  and  betwixt  party  and  party,  as  indiffer- 
ently as  the  herring  backbone  doth  lie  in  the  midst  of  the 
fLsh." 

As  Philip  pronounced  these  words,  he  was  con.scious  of 
only  one  face  in  that  asseml)ly.  It  was  not  the  face  of  the 
Governor,  of  the  Bishop,  of  any  dignitary  of  Church  or 
Sti^te — but  a  rugged,  eager,  dark  face  over  a  black  beard  in  the 
grip  of  a  great  brov«rn  hand,  with  sparkling  eyes,  parted  lips, 
and  a  look  of  boyish  pride — it  was  the  face  of  Pete. 

"  It  only  remains  for  me,"  said  the  Governor,  "  to  congratu- 
late your  Honour  on  the  high  office  to  which  it  has  pleased  Her 
Majesty  to  api)oint  you,  and  to  wish  you  long  life  and  healtli 
to  fulfil  its  duties,  with  blameless  credit  to  yourself  and  dis- 
tinction to  your  country." 

There  was  some  other  speaking,  and  then  Philip  replied, 
lie  spoke  clearly,  firmly,  and  well.  A  referejice  to  his  grand- 
father i)rovoked  ai)plause.  His  modesty  atid  natural  manner 
made  a  strong  impression.  "  His  Excellency  is  not  so  far 
wrong,  after  all,"  was  the  common  whisper. 


3eU  THE   MANXMAN. 

Some  further  business,  and  the  Council  broke  up  for  gen- 
eral gossip.  Then,  on  the  pavement  outside,  while  the  car- 
riages were  coming  in  line,  there  were  renewed  congratula- 
tions, invitations,  and  warnings.  The  Grovernor  invited  Philix^ 
to  dinner.  He  excused  himself,  saying  he  had  promised  to 
dine  with  his  aunt  at  Ballure,  The  ladies  warned  him  to  spare 
himself,  and  recommended  a  holiday  ;  and  then  the  Clerk  of 
the  Rolls,  proud  as  a  peacock,  strutting  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  and  assuming  the  airs  of  a  guardian,  cried, 
"  Can't  yet,  though,  for  he  holds  his  fii'st  court  in  Ramsey  to, 
morrow  morning.  .  .  .  Put  on  the  cloak.  Christian.  It  will 
be  cold  driving.     Good  men  are  scarce." 

An  open  landau  came  up  at  length,  with  Jem-y-Lord  on 
the  box-seat,  and  Pete  walking  by  the  horse's  head,  smoothing 
its  neck  and  tickling  its  ears. 

"  Why,  you  were  talking  of  the  young  man,  Christian,  and 
behold  ye,  here's  the  great  fellow  himself.  Well,  young  chap," 
slapping  Pete  on  the  back,  "  see  your  Deemster  take  the  oath, 
eh  ? " 

"  He's  my  cousin.''  said  Philip. 

"Cousin  !    Is  he,  then — can  he   perhaps  be — Ah  !  yes,  of 

course,  certainly "    The  good  man  stammered  and  stopped, 

remembering  the  marriage  of  Philip's  father.  He  opened  the 
carriage  door  and  stood  aside  for  Philip,  but  Philip  said — 

"  Step  in,  Pete  ;  "  and,  with  a  shamefaced  look,  Pete  rolled 
into  the  carriage.  Philip  took  the  seat  beside  him,  amid  a 
buzz  of  voices  from  the  people  standing  about  the  door. 

"Well,  as  you  like  ;  good  day,  then,  boy,  good  day,"  said 
the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  clashing  the  door  back.  The  carriage 
began  to  move. 

"  Good  day,  your  Honour,"  cried  several  out  of  the  crowd. 

Philip  raised  his  hat.  The  hats  of  the  men  w^ent  up  to 
him.     Some  of  the  girls  were  wiping  their  eyes. 


XIV. 

While  Pete  and  Philip  were  driving  over  the  road  from 
Douglas,  Kate  was  sitting  wnth  the  child  on  her  lap  before  the 
fire  in  Elm  Cottage.  Her  e^-es  were  restless,  her  manner  agi- 
tated.    She  looked  out  at  the  window  from  time  to  time.    The 


MAN    AND    WIFK  ;>nr) 

setting:  sun  holiiiul  tlic  lioiisi^  still  licld  Ihr  day  with  liori/oiital 
shafts  of  liirhl  in  tho  spi-in<,'-  {j^rceii  of  the  tnmsparcnt,  loavoii. 

"  Wouhhi't  you  Ukv  to  sre  thr  procession  to-ni;^lit,  Nancy  V 
she  said. 

"  Aw,  mortal,"  said  Nancy.  "  But  I  won't  *i;ct  hive,  thouj^h. 
'Take  care  of  my  two  girls,'  says  lie " 

''  You  may  go,  Nancy  ;  111  see  to  baby,"  said  Kat«. 

"But  the  man  himself,  woman  ;  he'll  be  coming  homo  jus 
hungry  as  a  hunter." 

"  I'll  see  to  his  supper,  too,"  said  Kate.  "  Carry  tlu>  key  with 
you  that  you  may  let  yourself  in,  and  be  back  at  half  past 
seven." 

Then  Nancy  began  to  fly  about  the  kitchen  like  sputter- 
iugs  out  of  the  frying-pan — filling  the  kettle,  lighting  the 
lamp,  and  getting  together  the  baby's  night-clothes.  Kate 
watched  her  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Was  the  town  quiet  when  you  were  out  for  the  bacon, 
Nancy  ?"  she  said. 

'•  Quiet  enough,"  said  Nancy.  "  Everybody  Hying  oil"  Le- 
zayre  way  already — except  what  were  making  for  the  quay." 

"Is  the  steamer  sailing  to-night,  then  ?" 

"Yes,  the  Peveril ;  but  not  water  enough  to  float  hei"  till 
half-past  seven,  they  were  saying.  Here's  the  HI  one's  night- 
dress, and  here's  her  binder,  bless  her — just  big  enough  for  a 
bandage  for  a  person's  wrist  if  she  sprained  it  churning." 

"  Lay  them  on  the  fender  to  air,  Nancy — I'll  not  undress 
baby  yet  awhile.     And  see — it's  nearly  seven." 

"Til  be  pinning  my  shawl  on  and  away  like  the  wind" 
said  Nancy.  "  The  bogh  !  "  she  said,  with  tlu^  pin  Ix'tween  her 
teeth.  "She's  off  again.  Do  you  really  think,  now,  the  angels 
in  heaven  are  as  sweet  and  innocent,  Kirry^  I  don't.  They 
can't  if  they're  grown  up.  And  having  to  climb  JjU'ob's  lad- 
der, poor  things,  they  nmst  be.  Then,  if  they're  n»en — but 
that's  ridiculous,  anyway." 

"The  clock  is  striking,  Nancy.  No  use  going  when  every- 
thing's over,"  said  Kate,  and  the  foot  with  which  she  rocked 
the  child  went  faster  now  that  the  little  <me  was  asleep. 

"  Sakes  alive  I  L'jt  me  tie  the  strings  of  my  bonnet,  woman. 
Pity  you  can't  come  yimrself,  Kitty.  But  if  tliey'n'  worth 
their  salt  they'll  be  whipping  round  this  way  and  giving  you 
a  lil  tune,  anyway." 


306  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Have  you  got  the  key,  NaDoy  ? " 

"Yes,  and  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour.  And  mind  you  put 
baby  to  bed  soon,  and  mind  you — and  mind  you " 

With  as  many  warnings  as  if  she  had  been  mistress  and 
Kate  the  servant,  Nancy  backed  herself  out  of  the  house.  It 
was  now  dark  outside. 

Kate  rose  immediately,  put  the  child  in  the  cradle,  and  be- 
gan to  lay  the  table  for  Pete's  supper— the  cruet,  the  plates,  the 
teapot  on  the  hob  to  warm,  and  then— by  force  of  habit — two 
cups  and  saucers.  But  sight  of  the  cups  awakened  her  to 
painful  consciousness.  She  put  one  of  them  back  in  the  cup- 
board, broke  the  coal  on  the  fire,  settled  the  kettle  up  to  the 
blaze,  fixed  the  Dutch  oven  with  three  rashers  of  bacon  before 
the  bars,  then  lit  a  candle,  and,  with  a  nervous  look  around, 
turned  to  go  upstairs. 

In  the  bedroom  she  drew  on  her  cloak,  pinned  her  hat  and 
veil  with  trembling  fingers,  then  took  her  purse  from  her 
pocket  and  emptied  its  contents  onto  the  dressing-table. 

"  Not  mine,"  she  thought.  And  standing  before  the  mirror 
at  that  moment,  she  caught  sight  of  her  earrings.  "I  must 
take  nothing  of  his,'"  she  told  herself,  and  she  raised  her  hands 
to  her  ears.  Then  her  heart  smote  her.  "  As  if  Pete  would 
ever  think  of  such  things,"  she  thought.  "  No,  not  if  I  took 
everything  he  has  in  the  world.  And  must  I  be  thinking  of 
them  ?  .  .  .  Yet  I  cannot — I  will  not  take  them  with  me." 

She  opened  a  drawer  and  hurried  everything  into  it — the 
money,  the  earrings,  the  keeper  off  her  finger,  and.  then  she 
paused  at  the  touch  of  the  wedding-ring.  A  superstitious  in- 
stinct restrained  her.    Yet  the  ring  was  the  badge  of  her  broken 

covenant.     ''  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed "     She  tore  off  the 

wedding-ring  also,  and  cast  it  with  the  rest. 

"  He  will  find  them,"  she  thought.  "  There  will  be  nothing 
else  to  tell  him  what  has  happened.  He  will  come,  and  I  shall 
be  gone.  He  will  call,  and  there  will  be  no  answer.  He  will 
look  for  me,  and  I  shall  be  lost  to  him  for  ever.  Not  a  word 
left  behind.  Not  a  line  to  say,  '  Thank  you  and  good-bye  and 
God  bless  you,  dear  Pete,  for  all  your  love  and  goodness  to 
rae.'" 

It  was  cruel —  v^ery  cruel— yet  what  could  she  write  ?  What 
could  she  say  that  had  not  better  be  left  unsaid  ?  The  least 
syllable -no,  the  uncertainty  would  be  kinder.     Perhaps  Pete 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  ;^,()7 

would  think  she  was  dead — perlia])s  that  she  liad  destroyed 
herself.  Even  that  would  not  be  so  bitter  as  the  truth.  He 
would  got  over  it — he  would  become  reconciled.  ''  No,"  she 
thouf^ht,  "I  can  write  notliin"; — I  can  leave  no  messapfe." 

She  shut  the  drawer  quickly,  and  picked  uj)  the  candle.  As 
she  did  so,  the  shadow  of  herself  moved  about  her.  It  mounted 
from  the  floor  to  the  wall,  from  the  wall  to  the  ceiling.  Wlu  n 
she  walked  it  seemed  to  be  on  top  of  her,  hanging  over  her, 
pressing  down  on  her,  crushing  her.  She  grew  cold  and  sick, 
and  hastened  to  the  door.  The  room  was  full  of  other  shadows 
—the  memories  of  sleepless  nights  and  of  painful  awakenings. 
These  stared  at  her  from  every  familiar  thing — the  watch  tick- 
ing in  its  stand  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  handle  of  the  ward- 
robe, the  pink  curtains  of  the  bed,  the  white  pillow  beneath 
them.  She  felt  like  a  frightened  child.  With  a  terrified  glance 
over  her  shoulder  she  crept  out  of  the  room. 

Being  downstairs  again,  she  breathed  more  freely.  There 
was  light  all  about  her,  and  the  hall-parlour  was  bright  and 
warm.  The  kettle  was  now  singing  in  the  cheerful  bkize,  the 
cat  was  purring  on  the  rug,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  bacon 
slowly  frying.  She  looked  at  the  clock— it  was  a  quarter  after 
seven.     "  Time  to  waken  baby,''  she  thought. 

She  took  from  a  chest  the  child's  outdoor  clothes— a  robe,  a 
pelisse,  and  a  white  hood.  Her  fingers  had  touched  a  scarlet 
hood  in  a  cardboard  box,  but  "not  that"  she  thought,  and  left 
it.  She  spread  the  clothes  about  her  chair,  and  then  lifted  the 
little  one  from  the  cradle  to  her  pillowing  arm.  The  child 
awoke  as  she  raised  it,  and  made  a  fretful  cry,  which  she 
smothered  in  a  gurgling  kiss. 

"  I  can  love  the  darling  without  shame  now,"  she  thought. 
"It's  sweet  face  will  reproach  me  no  more." 

With  soft  cooings  at  the  baby's  cheek,  she  was  stooping  to 
take  the  robe  that  lay  at  her  feet,  when  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
round  place  in  the  cradle  where  the  child  had  been.  Tliat 
made  her  think  again  of  Pete.  He  would  come  home  and  find 
the  little  nest  cold  and  empty.  It  would  kill  him  ;  it  would 
be  a  second  bereavenient.  Was  it  not  enough  that  she  should 
go  away  herself  ?  Must  she  rob  liim  of  the  child  as  well  (  He 
loved  it  ;  he  doted  on  it.  It  w^as  the  lijjht  of  his  eyes,  the  joy 
of  his  life.     To  lose  it  would  be  a  blow  like  tlie  blow  of  death. 

Yet  could  a  mother  leave  her  child  behind  licr  i    Impos^i- 


308  THE  MANXMAN. 

ble  !  The  full  tide  of  motherhood  came  over  her,  and  its 
tender  selfishness  swept  down  everytliing-.  "I  cannot,"  she 
thought;  "come  what  may,  I  cannot  and  I  wall  not  leave 
her,'*     And  then  she  reached  her  hand  for  the  child's  pelisse. 

"  It  would  be  a  kind  of  atonement,  though,"  she  thought. 
To  leave  the  little  one  to  Pete  would  be  making  amends  in 
some  sort  for  the  wrong  that  she  was  doing  him.  To  deny 
herself  the  sight  of  the  child's  sweet  face  day  by  day  and  hour 
by  hour— that  would  be  a  punishm.ent  also,  and  she  deserved 
to  be  punished.  "  Can  I  leave  her  ?"  she  thought.  "Can  I  ? 
Oh,  w^hat  mother  could  bear  it  ?  No,  no — never,  never  !  And 
yet  I  ought— I  nmst — Oh,  this  is  terrible  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  this  agony  of  uncertainty,  thinking  of  Pete 
and  of  the  wrong  she  had  done  him,  yet  pressing  the  child  to 
her  breast  with  trembling  arms,  as  if  some  one  were  tearing  it 
away,  the  babe  itself  settled  everything.  Making  some  inar- 
ticulate whimper  of  communication,  it  nuzzled  up  to  her,  its 
eyes  closed,  but  its  head  working  against  her  bosom  with  the 
instinct  of  suckling,  though  it  had  never  sucked. 

"I'm  only  half  a  mother,  after  all,"  she  thought. 

The  highest  joys,  the  deepest  rights  of  motherhood  had 
been  denied  to  her — the  child  taking  from  the  mother,  the 
mother  giving  to  the  child,  the  child  and  the  mother  one— 
this  had  not  been  hers. 

"My  little  baby  can  live  without  me,"  she  thought.  "If  I 
leave  her,  she  will  never  miss  me." 

She  nearly  broke  down  at  that  thought,  and  almost  let  her 
purpose  slip.  It  was  like  God's  punishment  in  advance,  God's 
hand  directing  her — thus  to  w^ithdraw^  the  child  from  depend- 
ence on  herself. 

"  Yes,  I  must  leave  her  with  Pete,"  she  thought. 

She  put  the  child  back  into  the  cradle,  half  dressed  as  it 
was,  and  rocked  it  until  it  slept  again.  Then  she  hung  over 
the  tiny  bed  as  a  mother  hangs  over  the  little  coffin  that  is 
soon  to  be  shut  up  from  her  eyes  for  ever.  Her  tears  rained 
down  on  the  small  counterpane*  "My  sweet  baby  !  my  little 
Katherine  !  I  may  never  kiss  you  again — never  see  you  any 
more" — you  may  grow  up  to  be  a  woman  and  know  nothing  of 
your  mother  I " 

The  clock  ticked  loud  in  the  quiet  room — it  was  twenty-five 
minutes  past  seven. 


MAN    AND    Wll'i:.  30<) 

"One  kiss  more,  my  liltic  darlinn;'.     If  they  over  trll  you 
.  tliov'll  sav  because  voiir  mother  left  vou  .  .   ,   Oh,  will 


I  1' 


she  think  I  did  not  love  her  ?     Hush 

Throu«:]i  the  walls  of  the  house  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
hand  i)layinn^  at  a  distance.  She  looked  at  the  clock  af,^ain— it 
was  nearly  half-past  seven.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
there  was  the  rumble  of  carriafre-wheels  on  the  road.  Tliey 
stopped  in  the  lane  that  ran  between  the  chapel  and  the  end 
of  the  garden. 

Kate  rose  from  her  knees  and  opened  the  door  softly.  The 
house  had  been  as  a  dungeon  to  her,  and  slie  was  Hying  from 
it  like  a  prisoner  escaping.  A  shrill  whistle  pierced  the  air. 
The  Peveril  was  leaving  the  quay.  Through  the  streets  there 
was  a  sound  as  of  water  running  over  stones.  It  was  the  scut- 
tling of  the  feet  of  the  townspeople  as  they  ran  to  meet  the 
procession. 

She  stepped  out.  The  garden  was  dark  and  quiet  as  a 
prison  yard.  Hardly  a  leaf  stirred,  but  the  moon  was  break- 
ing through  the  old  fir-tree  as  she  lifted  her  troubled  face  to 
the  untroubled  sky.  She  stood  and  listened.  The  band  was 
coming  nearer.     She  could  hear  the  thud  of  the  big  drum. 

Boom  !     Boom  I     Boom  I 

Pete  was  there.  He  was  helping  at  Philip's  triumpli. 
That  was  the  beat  of  his  great  heart  made  audible. 

At  this  her  own  heart  stopped  for  a  moment.  She  grew 
chill  at  the  thought  of  the  brave  man  who  asked  no  better  lot 
than  to  love  and  cherish  her,  and  at  the  memory  of  the  other 
ui>on  whose  mercy  she  had  cast  herself.  The  band  stopped. 
There  was  a  noise  like  the  breaking  of  a  mighty  rocket  in  the 
sky.  The  people  were  cheering  and  clai)ping  hands.  Then  a 
clearer  sound  struck  her  ear.  It  was  the  clock  inside  tlie 
house  chiming  the  half-hour. 

Nancy  would  be  back  soon. 

Kate  listened  intently,  inclining  her  head  inwards.  If  the 
child  had  awakened  at  that  instiint.  if  it  had  stirred  and  cried, 
she  nmst  have  gone  back  for  good.  She  returned  for  one  mo- 
ment and  ilung  hei-self  over  the  cradle  again.  One  spasm 
more  of  lingeiing  tenderness,  "(iood-bye,  my  little  one  !  I 
am  leaving  you  with  him,  darling,  because  he  loves  you  dear- 
ly. You  will  grow  u])  and  be  a  good,  good  girl  to  him  always. 
Good-bye,  my  pet  !     My  precious,  my  precious  !     You  will  re- 


310  THE  MANXMAN. 

ward  him  for  all  he  has  done  for  me.  You  are  half  of  myself, 
dearest — the  innoceut  half.  Yes,  you  Tvill  wipe  out  your 
mother's  sin.  Yoa  will  be  all  he  thinks  I  am,  but  never  have 
been.  Farewell,  my  sweet  Katherine,  my  little,  darling  baby 
— good-bye— farewell — good-bye  ! '' 

She  leapt  up  and  lied  out  of  the  house  at  last,  on  tiptoe, 
like  a  thief,  pulling  the  door  after  her. 

When  she  heard  the  click  of  the  lock  she  felt  both  wretch- 
edness and  exultation— immense  agony  and  immense  relief. 
If  little  Katherine  were  to  cry  now,  she  could  not  return  to 
her.  The  door  was  closed,  the  house  was  shut,  the  prison  was 
left  behind.  And  behind  her,  too,  were  the  treachery,  the 
duplicity,  and  deceit  of  ten  stifliug  months. 

She  hurried  through  the  garden  to  a  side-door  in  the  wall 
leading  to  the  lane.  The  path  was  like  a  wave  of  the  sea  to 
her  stumbling  feet.  Her  breathing  was  short,  her  sight  was 
weak,  her  temples  were  beating  audibly.  Half  across  the 
garden  something  touched  her  dress,  and  she  niade  a  faint 
scream.  It  was  Pete's  dog.  Dempster.  He  was  looking  up  at 
her  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  bushes.  By  the  light  through 
the  blind  of  the  house  she  could  see  his  bat's  ears  and  watch- 
ful eyes. 

Boom  !     Boom  !     Boom  1 

The  band  had  begun  again.  It  was  coming  nearer. 
Philip  I  Philip  1  He  was  her  only  refuge  now.  All  else 
vras  a  blank. 

The  side-door  had  been  little  used.  Its  hinges  and  bolt 
were  rusty  and  stiff.  She  broke  her  nails  in  opening  it. 
From  the  other  side  came  the  light  jingle  of  a  curb  chain, 
and  over  the  wall  hovered  a  white  sheet  of  smoking 
light. 

The  carriage  was  in  the  lane,  and  the  driver — Philip's  serv- 
ant, Jem-y-Lord — stood  with  the  door  open.  Kate  stumbled 
on  the  step  and  fell  into  the  seat.     The  door  was  closed. 

Then  a  new  thought  smote  her.  It  was  about  the  child, 
about  Philip,  about  Pete.  In  leaving  the  little  one  behind 
her,  though  she  had  meant  it  so  unselfislily,  she  had  done  the 
one  thing  that  must  be  big  with  consequences.  It  would 
bring  its  penalty,  its  punishment,  its  retribution.  Stop  !  She 
would  go  back  even  yet.  Her  face  was  against  the  glass  :  she 
was  struggling  with  the  strap.     But  the  carriage  was  moving. 


MAX    AM)    WIFl' 


11 


She  heard  the  rumble  of  tiie  wheels  ;  it  was  like  a  deafeiiiiif^ 
reverberation  from  the  day  of  doom.  Then  her  senses  dwaled 
away  and  the  carriage  drove  on. 


XV. 

Outside  Ballure  House  there  was  a  crowd  wljicli  covered 
the  jjarden,  the  fence,  the  hig^li-road,  and  tlic  top  of  the  stone 
wall  opposite.  The  band  had  ceased  to  play,  and  the  people 
were  shouting-,  clapi)ing  hands,  and  clioering.  At  the  door — 
wliich  v;as  oi)en — Philip  stood  bareheaded,  and  a  shaft  of  the 
light  in  the  house  behind  him  lit  up  a  hundred  of  the  eager 
faces  gathered  in  the  darkness.  He  raised  his  hand  for 
silence,  but  it  was  long  before  he  was  allowed  to  speak.  Salu- 
tations rugged,  rough — almost  rude — but  hearty  to  the  point 
of  homeliness,  and  affectionate  to  the  length  of  familiarity, 
liew  at  his  head  from  every  side.  "  Good  luck  to  you,  boy  1 " 
— ''Bravo  for  Ramsey  !" — "The  Christians  for  your  life  !" — 
"A  chip  of  the  ould  block — Dempster  Chi'istian  the  Sixth  !" — 
"  Hush,  man,  he's  spaking  ! "— "  Go  it,  Phil  ! "— "  Give  it  lits, 
boy  ! "— "  Hush  !  hush  !  " 

"  Fellow-townsmen,"  said  Philip — his  voice  swung  like  a 
quivering  bell  over  a  sea, — "  you  can  never  know  how  much 
your  welcome  has  moved  me.  I  cannot  say  whether  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  I  am  more  proud  of  it  or  more  ashamed.  To 
be  a.shamed  of  it  altogether  would  dishonour  you,  and  to  be 
too  proud  of  it  would  dishonour  me.  I  am  not  worthy  of 
your  faith  and  good  fellowship.  Ah  !"— he  raised  his  hand 
to  check  a  minnnur  of  dissent  (the  ci'owd  was  now  hushed 
from  end  to  end)— "let  me  utter  the  thought  of  all.  In 
honouring  me  you  are  thinking  of  others  also  ('No,'  'Yes')  ; 
you  are  thinking  of  my  people — above  all,  of  one  who  was 
laid  under  the  willows  yonder,  a  wrecked,  a  broken,  a  dis- 
ap])ointed  man— my  father,  God  rest  him  !  I  will  not  conceal 
it  from  you — his  memory  has  been  my  guide,  his  failui*es  have 
been  my  lightship,  his  h()])es  my  beacon,  his  love  my  star. 
For  good  or  for  evil,  my  anchor  has  been  in  the  depths  of  his 
grave,  God  forl)i(l  that  I  should  have  lived  too  long  under 
the  grasp  of  a  dead  hand.  It  was  my  aim  to  regain  what  he 
had    lost,   and    tliis    duy    has    witnessed    its    partial    reclama- 


312  THE   MANXMAN. 

tion.  God  grant  I  may  not  have  paid  too  dear  for  such 
success/'  * 

There  were  cries  of  ''No,  sir,  no." 

He  smiled  faintly  and  shook  his  head.  "  Fellow-country- 
men, you  believe  I  am  worthy  of  the  name  I  bear.  There 
is  one  among  you,  an  old  comrade,  a  tried  and  trusted  friend, 
whose  faith  would  be  a  spur  if  it  were  not  a  reproach " 

His  voice  was  breaking,  but  still  it  pealed  over  the  sea  of 
heads.  "  Well,  I  will  try  to  do  my  duty — from  this  hour  on- 
wards you  shall  see  me  try.  Fellow-Manxmen,  you  will  help 
me  for  the  honour  of  the  place  I  fill,  for  the  sake  of  our  little 
island,  and — yes,  and  for  my  own  sake  also,  I  know  you  will 
— to  be  a  good  man  and  an  upright  judge.  But''— he  fal- 
tered, his  voice  could  barely  support  itself — "  but  if  it  should 
ever  appear  that  your  confidence  has  been  misplaced — if  in 
the  time  to  come  I  should  seem  to  be  unworthy  of  this  honour, 
untrue  to  the  oath  I  took  to-day  to  do  God's  justice  between 
man  and  man,  a  wrongdoer,  not  a  righter  of  the  wronged,  a 
whited  sepulchre  where  you  looked  for  a  tower  of  refuge— re- 
member, I  pray  of  you,  my  countrj^men,  remember,  much  as 
you  may  be  suffering  then,  there  will  be  one  who  will  be  suf- 
fering more — that  one  will  be  myself." 

The  general  impression  that  night  was  that  the  Deemster's 
speech  had  not  been  a  proper  one.  Breaking  up  with  some 
damp  efforts  at  the  earlier  enthusiasm,  the  people  complained 
that  they  were  like  men  who  had  come  for  a  jig  and  were  sent 
home  in  a  wet  blanket.  There  should  have  been  a  joke  or 
two,  a  hearty  word  of  congratulation,  a  little  natural  glorifi- 
cation of  Ramsey,  and  a  quiet  slap  at  Douglas  and  Peel  and 
Castletown,  a  few  fireworks,  a  rip-rap  or  two,  and  some  gen- 
eral illumination.  "  But  sakes  alive  !  the  solemn  the  young 
Dempster  was  !  And  the  melancholy  !  And  the  mj'sta- 
rious  ! " 

"Chut  !  "  said  Pete.  ''  There's  such  a  dale  of  comic  in  you, 
boj's.  Wonder  in  the  world  to  me  you're  not  kidnapped  for 
pantaloonses.  Go  home  for  all  and  wipe  your  eyes,  and  re- 
member the  words  he's  been  spaking.  I'm  not  going  to  forget 
them  myself,  anyway." 

Handing  over  the  big  drum  to  little  Jonaique,  Pete  turned 
to  go  into  the  house.  Auntie  Nan  was  in  the  hall,  hopping 
like  a  canary  about  Philip,  in  a  brown  silk  dress  that  rustled 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  ;;i;{ 

liko.  withered  ferns,  hupfpfinp^  liiin,  (Irawiujj:  him  (l(>\vii  to  llio 
level  of  lier  face,  and  kissinjj:  liini  on  \\\v  forclicad.  The  tears 
were  rainin;^  over  the  autumn  sunsl.ine  of  hor  wrinkh-d 
cheeks,  and  her  voice  was  cracking  hetween  a  lau<^h  and  a  cry. 

"  My  boy  !  My  dear  boy  !  My  boy's  boy  !  My  own  hin  \s 
ov.n  boy ! " 

Philip  freed  himself  at  lengtli,  and  went  upsUiii's  without 
turning  his  head,  and  tlieu  Auntie  Nan  saw  Pete  standing'  in 
the  doorway. 

''Is  it  you,  Pete  ?"  she  said  witli  an  cll'ort.  ''Won't  you 
come  in  for  a  moment  ?     No  i  " 

"  A  minute  only,  then — just  to  wish  you  joy,  Miss  Christian, 
ma'am,''  said  Pete. 

"And  you,  too,  Peter.  Ah!"  she  said,  with  a  bird-like 
turn  of  the  head,  "  you  must  be  a  proud  man  to-ni^ht,  Pete." 

"  Proud  isn't  the  word  for  it,  ma'am — I'm  clane  beside  my- 
self." 

"  He  took  a  fancy  to  you  when  you  were  only  a  little  bare- 
footed boy,  Pete." 

"  So  he  did,  ma'am." 

"And  now  that  he's  Deemster  itself  he  owns  you  still." 

"Aw,  lave  him  alone  for  that,  ma'am." 

"  Did  you  hear  what  he  said  about  you  in  his  speech.  It 
isn't  evervbody  in  his  place  would  have  done  that  before  all, 
Pete." 

"'Deed  no,  ma'am." 

"He's  true  to  his  friends,  whatever  they  are." 

"True  as  steel." 

The  maid  was  carrying  the  dishes  into  the  dininf]r-room,  and 
Auntie  Nan  said  in  a  strained  way,  "You  won't  stay  to  din- 
ner, Pete,  will  you  {  Perhaps  you  want  to  j^^et  home  to  the 
mistress.  Well,  home  is  be.st  for  all  of  us,  isn't  it?  Martha, 
I'll  tell  the  Deemster  myself  that  dinner  is  on  the  table. 
Well,  good-nij^ht,  Peter.     I'm  always  so  glad  to  see  you." 

She  was  whi.sking  about  to  go  upstairs,  but  Pete  had  Uikcn 
one  step  into  tlie  dining-room,  and  w:us  gazing  round  with 
looks  of  awe. 

"Lord  alive,  Miss  Christian,  ma'am,  what  feelings  now- 
barefooted  boy,  you  say  ?  You're  right  there,  and  cold  and 
hungr\'  too,  sleeping  in  the  gable-hous«'  with  the  cow,  and 
Dot  getting  inu'"h  but  the  milk  1   was  staling  irom  her,  and 


31i  THE  MANXMAN. 

a  leathering  at  the  ould  man  for  that.  Philip  fetched  m,e  in 
here  one  evenin' — that  was  the  start,  ma'am.  See  that 
pepper-and-salt  egg  on  the  string  there  ?  It's  a  Tommy  Nod- 
dy's. Philip  got  it  nesting  up  Gob-ny-Garvain.  Nearly  cost 
him  his  life,  though.  You  see,  ma'am.  Tommy  Noddy  has 
only  one,  and  she  fights  like  mad  for  it.  We  were  up  forty 
fathom  and  better,  atop  of  a  cave,  and  had  two  straight  rocks 
below  us  in  the  sea,  same  as  an  elephant's  hoofs,  you  know, 
walking  out  on  the  blue  floor.  And  Phil  was  having  his  lil 
hand  on  the  ledge  where  the  egg  was  keeping,  when  swoop 
came  the  big  white  wings  atop  of  his  bare  head.  If  I  hadn't 
had  a  stick  that  day,  ma'am,  it  would  have  been  heaven  help 
the  pair  of  us.  The  next  minute  Tommy  Noddy  was  going 
splash  down  the  cliffs,  all  feathers  and  blood  together,  or 
Philip  wouldn't  have  lived  to  be  Dempster.  .  .  .  Aw,  fright- 
ened you,  have  I,  ma'am,  for  all  it's  so  long  ago  ?  The  heart's 
a  quare  thing,  now,  isn't  it  ?  Got  no  yesterday  nor  to-morrow 
neither.  Well,  good-night,  ma'am."  Pete  was  making  for 
the  door,  when  he  looked  down  and  said,  "  What's  this,  at  all  ? 
Down,  Dempster,  down  I  " 

The  dog  had  came  trotting  into  the  hall  as  Pete  was  going 
out.  He  was  perking  up  his  big  ears  and  wagging  his  stump 
of  a  tail  in  front  of  him. 

"  My  dog,  ma'am  ?  Yes,  ma'am,  and  like  its  master  in 
some  ways.  Not  much  of  itself  at  all,  but  it  has  the  blood  in 
it.  though,  and  maybe  it'll  come  out  better  in  the  next  genera- 
tion. Looking  for  me,  are  you,  Dempster  ?  Let's  be  taking 
the  road,  then." 

"  Perhaps  you're  wanted  at  home,  Pete  ? " 

"  Wouldn't  trust.     Good  night,  ma'am." 
.  Auntie  Nan  hopped  upstairs  in  her  rustling  dress,  relieved 
and  glad  in  the  sweet  selfishness  of  her  love  to  get  rid  of  Pete 
and  have  Philip  to  herself. 


XVI. 

Pete  went  off  whistling  in  the  darkness,  with  the  dog 
driving  ahead  of  him.  "  I'm  to  blame,  though,"  he  thought. 
"  Sliould  have  gone  home  directly." 

The  tov,n  was  now  quiet,  the  streets  were  deserted,  and 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  315 

Potc  bof]rr»n  to  run.  "Slic'd  he  alono.  too.  Tliat  must  Ijavo 
beiMi  Nancy  in  tlio crowd  yonder  by  Mistress  Beatty's.  'Lowed 
her  out  to  see  the  do,  it's  like.  Ou<^ht  to  be  back  now, 
tliouo:h." 

x\s  Pete  came  near  to  Ehn  CottajL,^e,  tlie  moon  over  the  tree- 
tops  lit  up  the  panes  of  the  upper  windows  as  with  a  score  of 
bright  lamps.     One  step  more,  and  the  house  was  dark. 

"She'll  be  waitings  for  me.     Listeninpf.  too,  I'll  ^n  bail." 

He  was  at  tlie  g-ate  by  this  time,  and  the  dog  was  panting 
at  his  feet  with  its  nose  close  to  the  lattice. 

"Be  quiet,  dog-,  be  quiet." 

Then  he  raised  the  latch  without  a  sound,  stepped  in  on 
tiptoe,  and  closed  the  gate  as  silently  behind  him. 

"I'll  have  a  game  with  her  ;  I'll  take  her  by  surprise." 

His  eyes  began  to  dance  with  miscliief,  like  a  child's,  and 
he  crept  along  tlie  path  with  big  cat  strides,  half  doubled  up, 
and  liolding  his  breath,  lest  he  should  laugh  aloud. 

"The  sweet  creatures  !  A  man  shouldn't  frighten  them, 
though,"  he  thought. 

When  he  reached  the  porch  he  went  down  on  all  fours,  and 
began  mewing  like  a  mournful  tom-cat  near  to  the  bottom  of 
the  door.  Then  he  listened  w  ith  his  ear  to  the  jamb.  He  ex- 
pected a  faint  cry  of  alarm,  the  raucous  voice  of  Nancy  Joe, 
and  the  clatter  of  feet  towards  the  porch.  There  was  not  a 
sound. 

"She's  upstairs,"  he  thought,  and  stepped  back  to  look  up 
at  the  front  of  the  house.  There  was  no  light  in  the  rooms 
above. 

"I  know  what  it  is.  Nancy  is  not  home  yet,  and  Kirry's 
fallen  asleep  at  the  rocking." 

He  stole  up  to  the  window  and  tried  to  look  into  the  hall, 
but  the  blind  was  down,  and  he  could  not  see  much  through 
the  narrow  openings  at  the  sides  of  it. 

"She's  sleeping,  that's  it.  The  house  was  quiet  and  she 
dropped  off,  rocking  the  HI  one,  that's  all." 

He  scraped  a  handful  of  tlie  light  gravel  and  Hung  a  little 
of  it  at  the  window.  "That'll  remind  her  of  something,"  he 
thought,  and  he  laughed  under  his  breath. 

Then  he  listened  again  with  his  ear  at  the  sill.  There  was 
no  noi.se  within.  He  flung  more  gravel  and  waited,  thinking 
he  might  catch  her  breathing,  but  he  <ould  liear  nothing. 
21 


316  THE   MANXMAN. 

Then  rising  hurriedly  and  throwing  off  his  playfulness,  he 
strode  to  the  door  and  tried  to  open  it.  The  door  was  locked. 
He  returned  to  the  window. 

"  Kate  !  "  he  called  softly.  "  Kate  !  Are  you  there  ?  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  It's  Pete.  Don't  be  frightened,  Kate, 
bogh  ! " 

There  was  no  response.  He  could  hear  the  beat  of  the  sea 
on  the  shore.  The  dog  had  perched  himself  on  one  end  of  the 
window  sill  and  was  beginning  to  whine. 

"  What's  this  at  all  ?  She  can't  be  out.  Couldn't  take  the 
child  anyway.  Where's  that  Nancy  ?  What  right  had  the 
w^oman  to  lave  her  ?  She  has  fainted,  being  left  alone  ;  that's 
what's  going  doing." 

He  tried  to  open  the  window,  but  the  latch  was  shot.  Then 
he  tried  the  other  windows,  and  the  back  door,  and  the  window 
above  the  hall,  which  he  reached  from  the  I'oof  of  the  porch  ; 
but  they  would  not  stir.  When  he  returned  to  the  hall  v/in- 
dow,  the  white  blind  was  darker.  The  lamp  inside  the  room 
was  going  out. 

The  moonlight  was  dripping  down  on  him  through  the 
leaves  of  the  trees.  He  found  some  matches  beside  his  pipe  in 
his  side  pocket,  struck  one,  and  looked  at  the  sash,  then  took 
out  his  clasp  knife  to  remove  the  pane  under  the  latch.  His 
hand  trembled  and  shook  and  burst  through  the  glass  with  a 
jerk.  It  cut  his  wrist,  but  he  felt  the  wound  no  more  than  if 
it  had  been  the  glass  instead  of  his  arm  that  bled.  He  thrust 
his  hand  through,  shot  back  the  latch,  then  pushed  up  the 
sash,  and  clambered  into  the  room  past  the  blind.  The  cat, 
sitting  on  the  ledge  inside,  rubbed  against  his  hand  and 
purred. 

"Kirry  !    Kate  !  "  he  whispered. 

The  lamp  had  given  up  its  last  gleam  with  the  puff  of  wind 
from  the  window,  and,  save  for  the  slumbering  fire,  all  was 
dark  within  the  house.  He  hardly  dared  to  drop  to  his  feet 
for  fear  of  treading  on  something.  When  he  was  at  last  in 
the  m.iddle  of  the  floor  he  stood  with  legs  apart,  struck  another 
match,  held  the  light  above  his  head,  and  looked  down  and 
around,  like  a  man  in  a  cave. 

There  was  nothing.  The  child,  awakened  by  the  draught 
of  the  night  air,  began  to  cry  from  the  cradle.  He  took  it  up 
and  hushed  it  wdth  baby  words  of  tenderness  in  a  breaking 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  ;>l 


voice.  "Hush,  lx>;jrl».  hnsli  I  Maiunuo  will  romo  to  it,  tlicn. 
Miiinmie  will  come  for  all.' 

Ho  lit  :i  caiidlo  and  cropt  throu^^h  tlu«  hoiisr,  carrv  iiip;-  tli(^ 
liji^ht  about  with  him.  Tlicre  was  no  si^j^ii  any  whore  until  1m; 
came  to  the  lnulrooin,  when  ho  saw  that  tin;  liat  and  oloak  of 
Kate's  daily  wear  had  ^a)ne.  Tlun  he  knew  that  he  was  a 
broken-hearted  man.  With  a  cry  of  desolation  he  stopped 
in  liis  search  and  came  heavily  downstairs. 

He  had  been  warding*  off  the  moment  of  despair,  but  he 
could  do  so  no  longer  now.  The  empty  house  and  the  child, 
the  child  and  the  empty  house  ;  these  allowed  of  only  one  in- 
terpretation. "She's  gone,  bogh,  she's  left  us  ;  she  wasn't 
willing  to  stay  with  us,  God  forgive  her  I " 

Sitting  on  a  stool  with  the  little  one  on  his  knees,  he  sobbed 
while  the  child  cried — two  children  crying  together.  Sud- 
denly he  leapt  up.  ''  I'm  not  for  believing  it,"  he  thought. 
"  What  woman  alive  could  do  the  like  of  it  ?  There  isn't  a 
mother  breathing  that  hasn't  more  bowels.  And  she  used  to 
love  the  lil  one,  and  me  too — and  docs,  and  does." 

He  saw  how  it  was.  She  was  ill,  distraught,  perhaps  even 
— God  help  her  I— perhaps  even  mad.  Such  things  happened 
to  women  after  childbirth— the  doctor  himself  had  said  as 
much.  In  the  toils  of  her  bodily  trouble,  besot  by  mental  ter- 
roi*s,  she  had  fled  away  from  her  baby,  her  husband,  and  lier 
home,  pui*sued  by  God  knows  what  phantoms  of  disease.  But 
she  would  get  better,  she  Avould  come  back. 

"  Hu.sh,  bogh,  hush,  then,"  he  whimpered  tenderly.  "  Mam- 
mie  will  come  home  again.    Still  and  for  all  she'll  come  back." 

There  was  the  click  of  a  key  in  the  lock,  and  he  crept  back 
to  the  stool.     Nancy  came  in,  panting  and  ])oi*spiring. 

"Dear  heart  alive  !  what  a  raco  I've  had  to  got  home,"  she 
said,  pulling  tlie  air  of  the  night. 

She  was  throwing  oif  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  talking 
before  looking  round. 

"Such  pushing  and  scrooging,  j'ou  never  seen  the  like, 
Kirry.  Aw,  my  best  Sunday  bonnet,  only  wore  at  me  once, 
look  at  the  crunched  it  is  I  l^ut  what  d'ye  tliink  now  ?  Poor 
Cliri.stian  Killip's  baby  is  dead  for  all.  Died  in  the  middle  of 
the  rejoicings.  Aw,  dear,  yes.  and  the  band  going  by  ])laying 
'The  Conquering  Hero'  the  very  niinuto.  ]*«M)r  thing  I  she 
was  disti*acted,  and  no  wonder.     I  ran  round  to  put  a  sight  on 


318  THE   MA^^XMAN. 

the  poor  sovil,  and why,  what's  going  wrong  with  the  lamp, 

at  all  i  Is  that  yourself  on  the  stool,  Kirry  ?  Pete,  is  it  ? 
Then  where's  the  misti'ess  ? " 

She  plucked  up  the  poker,  and  dug  the  fire  into  a  blaze. 
"  What's  doing  on  you,  man  ?  You've  skinned  your  knuckles 
like  potato  peel.     Man,  man,  what  for  are  you  crying,  at  all  ? " 

Then  Pete  said  in  a  thick  croak,  "  Hould  your  hull  of  a 
tongue,  Nancy,  and  take  the  child  out  of  my  arms." 

She  took  the  baby  from  him,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet  as 
feeble  as  an  old  man. 

"  Lord  save  us  ! "  she  cried.  "  The  window  broke,  too. 
What's  happened  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  growled  Pete. 

"  Then  what's  coming  of  Kirry  ?  I  left  her  at  home  when 
I  went  out  at  seven." 

''  I'm  choking  with  thirst,  woman.  Can't  you  be  giving  a 
man  a  drink  of  something  ?  " 

He  found  a  dish  of  milk  on  the  table,  where  the  supper  had 
been  laid,  and  he  gulped  it  down  at  a  mouthful. 

"She's  gone  — that's  what  it  is.  I  see  it  in  your  face." 
Then  going  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  she  called,  "  Kirry!  Kate! 
Katherine  Cregeen  ! " 

"  Stop  that  ! "  shouted  Pete,  and  he  drew  her  back  from  the 
stairs. 

"Why  aren't  you  spaking,  then?"  she  cried.  "If  you're 
man  enough  to  bear  the  truth,  I'm  woman  enougli  to  hear  it." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Nancy,"  said  Pete,  with  uplifted  fist.  "  I'm 
going  out  for  an  hour,  and  till  I'm  back,  stay  you  here  with 
the  child,  and  say  nothing  to  nobody." 

"  I  knew  it  ! "  cried  Nancy.  "  That's  what  she  hurried  me 
out  for.  Aw,  dear  !  Aw,  dear  !  What  for  did  you  lave  her 
with  that  man  this  morning  ? " 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  woman  ? "  said  Pete ;  "  say  nothing  to 
nobody.  My  heart's  lying  heavy  enough  already.  Open  your 
lips,  and  you'll  kill  me  straight." 

Then  he  went  out  of  the  house,  staggering,  stumbling,  bent 
almost  double.  His  hat  lay  on  the  floor ;  he  had  gone  bare- 
headed. 

He  turned  towards  Sulby.  "She's  there,"  he  thou(i:ht. 
"  Where  else  should  she  be  ?  The  poor,  wandering  lamb 
wants  home." 


MAN   AND    WIFI-:.  ;^() 


XVII. 

The  bar-room  of  "  The  Manx  Fairy  "  was  full  of  f-ossips 
that  night,  and  the  pulling  of  many  pipes  was  suspended  at  a 
story  that  Mr.  Jelly  was  telling. 

"Strange  enough,  I'n\  thinking.  'Deed,  but  it's  inortai 
strange.  Talk  about  tale-books— tliere's  notbing  in  the 'Pil- 
grim's Progress'  itself  to  e(iual  it.  The  son  of  one  son  coming 
home  Dempster,  with  processions  and  bands  of  music,  at  the 
very  minute  the  son  of  the  other  son  is  getting  kicked  out  of 
the  house  same  as  a  dog." 

*'  Strange  uncommon,"  said  John  the  Widow,  and  other 
voices  echoed  him. 

Jonaique  looked  round  the  room,  expecting  some  one  to 
question  him.  As  nobody  did  so,  except  with  looks  of  inquiry, 
he  said,  "My  ould  man  heard  it  all.  He's  been  tailor  at  the 
big  house  since  the  time  of  Iron  Christian  himself." 

"  Truth  enough,"  said  Caesar. 

"And  he  was  sewing  a  suit  for  the  big  man  in  the  kitchen 
when  the  bad  work  wiis  going  doing  upstairs." 

"  You  don't  say  I  " 

"'You've  robbed  me  ! '  sa^-s  the  Ballawhaine." 

"  Dear  heart  alive  ! "  cried  Grannie.  "  To  his  own  son, 
was  it  ? " 

" '  You've  cheated  me  ! '  says  he,  '  you  deceaved  me,  you've 
embezzled  my  money  and  broke  my  heart  ! '  says  he.  '  I've 
spent  a  fortune  on  you,  and  what  have  you  brought  me  back?' 
says  he.  'This,' says  he, 'and  this — and  this— barefaced  for- 
geries, all  of  them  ! '  says  he." 

"The  Lord  help  us  !  "  muttered  Cajsar. 

"'They're  calling  me  a  miser,  aren't  they?'  saj's  he.  'I 
grind  my  people  to  tiie  dust,  do  I  ?  What  for,  then  ?  Whom 
for  ?  I've  been  a  good  father  to  you,  anyway,  and  a  fool,  too, 
if  nobody  knows  it  !'  says  he." 

"Nobody  !  Did  he  say  nobod}',  Mr.  Jelly?"  said  Cie.sar, 
screwing  up  his  mouth. 

"  '  If  you'd  liad  my  father  to  deal  with,'  says  he,  '  he'd  have 
turned  you  out  long  ago  for  a  liar  and  a  thief.'  '  M3' God, 
father,'  says  Ross,  struck  silly  for  the  minute.  'A  thief,  d'ye 
hear  me  ? '  sajs  the  Ballawhaine  ;  'a  thief  tliat's  taken  every 
penny  I  have  in  the  world,  and  left  me  a  ruined  man.' " 


320  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  Did  he  say  that  ? "  said  Caesar. 

"  He  did,  though,"  said  Jonaique.  "  The  ould  man  was  lis- 
tening from  the  kitchen-stairs,  and  young  Ross  snaked  out  of 
the  house  same  as  a  cur." 

"  And  Where's  he  gone  to  ?  "  said  Caesar. 

"  Gone  to  the  devil,  I'm  thinking,"  said  Jonaique. 

"  Yv^ell,  he'd  be  good  enough  for  him  with  a  broken  back — 
pity  the  ould  man  didn't  break  it,"  said  Csesar.  "  But  where'^ 
the  wastrel  now  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  England  over  with  to-night's  packet,  they're  say- 
ing." 

"  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow,"  said  Caesar, 

A  grunt  came  out  of  the  corner  from  behind  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  ''  You've  your  own  rasons  for  saying  so,  Caesar,"  said 
the  husky  voice  of  Black  Tom.  "People  were  talking  and 
talking  one  while  there  that  he'd  be  'bezzling  somebody's 
daughter,  as  well  as  the  ould  miser's  money." 

''  Answer  a  fool  according  to  his  folly,"  muttered  Caesar  ; 
and  then  the  door  jerked  open,  and  Pete  came  staggering  into 
the  room.  Every  pipe  shank  was  lowered  in  an  instant,  and 
Grannie's  needles  ceased  to  click. 

Pete  was  still  bareheaded,  his  face  was  ghastly  white,  and 
his  eyes  wandered,  but  he  tried  to  bear  himself  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Smiling  horribly,  and  nodding  all  round,  as  a 
man  does  sometimes  in  battle  the  moment  the  bullet  strikes 
him,  he  turned  to  Grannie  and  moved  his  lips  a  little  as  if  he 
thought  he  was  saying  something,  though  he  uttered  no  sound. 
»Af ter  that  he  took  out  his  pipe,  and  rammed  it  with  his  fore- 
finger, then  picked  a  spill  from  the  table,  and  stooped  to  the 
fire  for  a  light. 

"  Anybody — belonging— me— here  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  like 
a  crow's,  coughing  as  he  spoke,  the  flame  dancing  over  the  pipe 
mouth. 

"No,  Pete,  no,"  said  Grannie.  ''Who  were  you  looking 
for,  at  all  ?  " 

"Nobody,"  he  answered.  "Nobody  partic'lar.  Aw,  no," 
he  said,  and  he  puffed  until  his  lips  quacked,  though  the  pipe 
gave  out  no  smoke.  "Just  come  in  to  get  fire  to  my  pipe. 
Must  be  going  nov7.  So  long,  boys'.  Slong!  Bye-bye,  Gran- 
nie !  " 

No  one  answered  him.     He  nodded  round  the  room  again 


MAN    AM)    WlFl-:.  '^21 

ami  smiltnl  f«';irfully,  crossed  to  tlic  door  with  a  jaunty  n>ll, 
and  tlius  launched  out  of  tlic  liouso  with  a  pn'tence  of  uncon- 
cern, the  dead  jjipe  lian;^in.<j:  upside  down  in  his  month,  and  liis 
liead  a.side,  as  if  liis  hat  had  heen  tilted  rakishly  on  his  uncov- 
ered hair. 

When  lie  liad  gone  the  company  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  in  surprise  and  fear,  as  if  a  ghost  in  broad  daylight  had 
passed  among  them.     Then  Black  Tom  broke  the  silence. 

"Men,"  said  he,  "that  was  a  d lie." 

"Si "  began  Ciesar,  but  the  protest  foundered  in  his  dry 

throat. 

"  Something  going  doing  in  Ramsey,"  Black  Tom  continued. 
"I  believe  in  my  heart  I'll  follow  him," 

"I'll  be  going  along  with  you,  Mr.  Quilliam,"  said  Jonaique. 

"And  I,"  said  John  the  Clerk. 

"And  I"— "And  I,"  said  the  others,  and  in  half  a  minute 
the  room  was  empty. 

"Father,"  whimpered  Grannie,  through  the  glass  partition, 
"hadn't  you  better  saddle  the  mare  and  see  if  anything's  going 
wrong  with  Kirry  ?  " 

"I  was  thinking  the  same  myself,  mother." 

"  Come,  then,  away  with  yf»u.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  all 
of  us  : " 


XVIII. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  earshot  Pete  began  to  run.  With- 
in half  an  hour  he  was  back  at  Elm  Cottage.  "  She'll  be  home 
by  tliis  time,"  he  told  himself,  but  he  dared  not  learn  the  truth 
too  suddenly.  Creeping  up  to  the  hall  window,  he  lis:tcned  at 
the  broken  pane.  The  ciiild  was  crying,  and  Nancy  Joe  was 
talking  to  herself,  and  sobbing  as  she  bathed  the  little  one. 

"  Bless  its  precious  heart,  it's  as  beautiful  as  the  angels  in 
heaven.  I've  bathed  her  mother  on  the  same  knee  a  hundred 
times.  'Deed  have  I,  and  a  thousand  times  too.  Mother,  in- 
deed !  What  sort  of  mothers  are  in  now  at  all  ?  She  must 
have  a  heart  as  luird  as  a  stone  to  lave  the  like  of  it.  Can't  bo 
a  drop  of  nature  in  her,  .  .  .  Goodne.s.s,  Nancy,  what  are  say- 
ing for  all?  Kate  is  it?  Your  own  little  Kirry,  and  you 
blackening  her  1  Aw,  dear  !— aw,  dear  1  The  bogh  !— the 
bogh  !  " 


322  THE   MANXMAN. 

Pete  could  not  go  in.  He  crept  back  to  the  cabin  in  the 
garden  and  leaned  against  it  to  draw  his  breath  and  think. 
Then  he  noticed  that  the  dog  was  on  the  path  with  its  long 
tongue  hanging  over  its  jaw.  It  stopped  its  panting  to  whine 
woefully,  and  then  it  turned  towards  the  darker  part  of  the 
garden. 

"  He's  telling  me  something,"  thought  Pete. 

A  car  rattled  down  the  side  road  at  that  moment,  and  the 
light  of  its  lamp  shot  through  the  bushes  to  his  feet. 

"  The  ould  gate  must  be  open,*'  he  thought. 

He  looked  and  saw^  that  it  was,  and  then  a  new  light 
dawned  on  him. 

"  She's  gone  up  to  Philip's."  he  told  himself.  "  She's  gone 
by  Claughbane  to  Ballure  to  find  me." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  he  was  knocking  at  Ballure 
House.  His  breath  was  coming  in  gusts,  perspiration  was 
standing  in  beads  on  his  face,  and  his  head  was  still  bare,  but 
he  was  carrying  himself  bravely  as  if  nothing  were  amiss. 
His  knock  was  answered  by  the  maid,  a  tall  girl  of  cheerful 
expression,  in  a  black  frock,  a  white  apron,  and  a  snow-white 
cap.     Pete  nodded  and  smiled  at  her. 

"  Anybody  been  here  for  me  ?    No  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir,  n — o,  I  think  not,"  the  girl  answered,  and  as  she 
looked  at  Pete  her  face  straightened. 

There  was  a  rustling  within  as  of  autumn  leaves,  and  then 
a  twittering  voice  cried,  "  Is  it  Capt'n  Quilliam,  Martha  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Some  w^hispered  conference  took  place  at  the  dining-room 
door,  and  Auntie  Nan  came  hopping  through  the  hall.  But 
Pete  was  already  moving  away  in  the  darkness. 

'•  Shall  I  call  the  Deemster,  Peter  ?  " 

"  Aw,  no,  ma'am,  no,  not  worth  bothering  him.  Good 
everin'.  Miss  Christian,  ma'am,  good  everin'  to  you." 

Auntie  Nan  and  Martha  were  standing  in  the  light  at  the 
open  door  when  the  iron  gate  of  the  garden  swung  to  with  a 
click,  and  Pete  swung  across  the  road. 

He  was  making  for  the  lane  which  goes  down  to  the  shore 
at  the  foot  of  Ballure  Glen.  "  No  denying  it,"  he  thought. 
"It  must  be  true  for  all.  The  trouble  in  her  head  has  driven 
her  to  it.     Poor  girl,  poor  darling  I  " 

He  had  been  fighting  against  an  avN'ful  idea,  and  the  quag- 


MAN    AND    Wll'K.  ;>,o;-» 

niirr  <^f  dosjiair  liad  risvu  to  his  (liroal  at  l;is(.  Th<'  niooii  was 
l)oliiiul  t ho  dirt's,  and  lie  <jri"<)i)0(l  liis  way  throiij^h  tho  sluulows 
at  tlie  foot  of  the  itn-ks  like  one  who  looks  for  something'-  which 
lie  dreads  to  find.  He  found  nothiiiLr.  and  his  e:ileliy  l)reath- 
injx  lenfrthened  to  si^^hs. 

"Thank  God,  not  here,  anyway  ! "  he  nnittered. 

Then  he  walked  down  the  shore  towards  the  Imrlxxir.  The 
tide  was  still  high,  the  wash  of  the  waves  touched  his  feet ;  on 
the  one  hand  the  dark  sea,  unbroken  by  a  lijrbt,  on  the  other 
the  dull  town  blinkinj]:  out  and  dropping];'  a.sleep. 

He  i-eac'lied  the  end  of  the  stone  pier  at  the  mouth  of  the 
harhour,  and  with  his  back  to  the  seaward  side  of  the  li^^ht- 
house  he  stared  down  into  the  grey  water  that  surged  and 
moaned  under  the  rounded  wall.  A  black  cloud  like  a  skate 
was  floating  across  the  moon,  and  a  startled  gannet  scuttled 
from  under  the  pier  steps  into  the  nux^rs  misty  waterway. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  be  seen. 

He  turned  back  towards  the  town,  following  the  line  of  tlie 
quay,  and  glancing  down  into  the  harbour  when  he  came  to 
the  steps.  Still  he  saw  nothing  of  the  thing  he  looked  for. 
'*  But  it  was  high  water  then,  and  now  it's  the  ebby  tide,"  he 
told  himself. 

He  had  met  with  nobody  on  the  shore  or  on  the  pier,  but 
as  he  passed  the  sheds  in  front  of  the  berth  for  the  steamers 
he  was  joined  by  the  harbour-master,  who  was  swinging  home 
for  the  night,  with  his  coat  across  his  arm.  Then  he  tried  to 
ask  the  question  that  was  slipping  off  his  tongue,  but  dared 
not,  and  only  stammered  awkwardly 

"  Any  news  to-night,  Mr.  Quayle  ?  " 

"Is  it  yourself,  Capt'n  ?  If  you've  none,  I've  none.  It's 
independent  young  rovei*s  like  you  for  newses,  not  |)oor  ould 
chaps  tied  to  the  har]>onr  post  same  as  a  ship's  cable.  I  was 
hearing  you,  though.  You'd  a  power  of  music  in  the  everin' 
yonder.     Fine  doings  up  at  Ballure,  seemingly." 

"Nothing  fresh  with  yourself  then,  Daniel  ?     No  ?" 

"  Except  that  I  am  middling  sick  of  these  late  sailings,  and 
the  sooner  they're  building  us  a  breakwater  the  better.  If  the 
young  Deemster  will  get  that  for  us,  he'll  do," 

They  were  nearing  a  lamp  at  the  conicr  of  the  market- 
place. 

"Its  like  you  know  the  young  Ballawhaine  crossed  with 


324  THE  MANXMAN. 

the  boat  to-night  ?  Something  wrong  with  the  ould  man, 
they're  telling  me.  But  bov,  veen,  what's  come  of  your  hat 
at  all  ? " 

"  My  hat  ?  "  said  Pete,  groping  about  his  head.  "  Oh,  my 
hat  ?    Blown  off  on  the  pier,  of  coorse.*' 

''  'Deed,  man  !  Not  much  wind  either.  You'll  be  for 
home  and  the  young  wife,  eh,  Capt'n  ? " 

"  Must  be,''  said  Pete,  with  an  empty  laugh.  And  the  har- 
bour-master, who  was  a  bachelor,  laughed  more  heartily,  and 
added 

"  You  married  men  are  like  Adam,  you've  lost  the  rib  of 
your  liberty,  but  you've  got  a  warm  little  woman  to  your  side 
instead." 

''  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Good  night  !  " 

Pete's  laugh  echoed  through  the  empty  market-place. 

Tbe  harbour-master  had  seen  nothing.  Pete  drew  a  long 
breath,  followed  the  line  of  the  harbour  as  far  as  to  the  bridge 
at  the  end  of  it,  and  then  turned  back  through  the  town.  He 
had  forgotten  again  that  he  was  bareheaded,  and  he  walked 
down  Parliament  Street  with  a  tremendous  step  and  the  air  of 
a  man  to  whom  nothing  unusual  had  occurred.  People  were 
standing  in  groups  at  the  corner  of  every  side  street,  talking 
eagerly,  with  the  low  hissing  sound  that  women  make  when 
they  are  discussing  secrets.  So  absorbed  were  they  that  Pete 
passed  some  of  them  unobserved.  He  caught  snatches  of 
their  conversation. 

"  The  rascal,"  said  one. 

"  Clane  ruined  the  ould  man,  anyway,"  said  another. 

''  Ross  Christian  again,"  thought  Pete.  But  a  greater  secret 
swamped  everything.     Still  he  heard  the  people  as  he  passed. 

"Sarve  her  right,  though,  w^hatever  she  gets — she  knew 
w^hat  he  was." 

"  Laving  the  child,  too,  the  unfeeling  creature." 

Then  the  sharp  voices  of  the  women  fell  on  the  dull  con- 
sciousness of  Pete  like  forks  of  lightning. 

''Whisht,  woman  !  the  husband  himself,"  said  some- 
body. 

There  was  a  noise  of  feet  like  the  plash  of  retiring  waves, 
and  Pete  noticed  that  one  of  the  groups  had  broken  into  a  half 
circle,  facing  him  as  he  strode  along  the  street.  He  nodded 
cheerfully  over  both  sides,  threw  back   his  bare  head,  and 


MAN    AND    WIFK.  .-^.j;") 

plodded  on.  But  his  WciU  wore  set  liard,  and  his  hrcaihiii;,' 
was  quick  and  audil)le. 

"I  see  wlial  they  iiiane,"  h(^  inuttci-ed. 

Outside  his  own  house  he  found  a  crowd.  A  saddh'-liorso, 
with  a  cloud  of  steam  i-isin<,'-  from  her,  was  standing:  with  the 
reins  over  its  head,  linked  to  the  gate-post.  It  was  Caesar's 
nnare,  Molly.  Every  eye  was  on  the  house,  and  no  one  saw 
Pete  as  he  came  up  hchind. 

"Black  Tom's  saying  there's  not  a  douht  of  it,''  said  a 
woman. 

"Gone  with  the  young  Ballawhaine,  eh  ?  "  said  a  man. 

"Shame  on  her,  the  hussy,"  said  another  woman. 

Pete  ploughed  his  way  through  with  both  arms,  smiling  and 
nodding  furiously.     "  If  you,  plaze,  ma'am  !     If  you  plaze." 

As  he  pushed  on  he  heard  voices  behind  him.  "  Poor  man, 
he  doesn't  know  yet." — "  I'm  taking  pit}-  to  look  at  him." 

The  house-door  was  open.  On  the  threshold  stood  a  young 
man  with  long  hair  and  a  long  note-book.  He  was  putting 
questions.  "  Last  seen  at  seven  o'clock — left  alone  with  child 
— husband  out  with  procession — any  other  information  ?" 

Nancy  Joe,  with  the  child  on  her  lap,  was  answering  queru- 
lously from  the  stool  before  the  lire,  and  Ciesar,  face  down, 
was  leaning  on  the  manteli)iece. 

Pete  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Then  he  laid  his 
big  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  and  swung  him  aside 
as  if  he  had  been  turning  a  swivel. 

"  What  going  doing  ? "  he  asked. 

The  young  man  faltered  something.  Sorry  to  intrude — 
Capt'n  Quilliam's  trouble. 

"What  trouble  ?"  said  Pete. 

"  Need  I  say — the  lamented — I  mean  distressing— in  fact, 
the  mysterious  di.sappearance '' 

"What  disappearance?''  said  Pete,  with  an  air  of  amaze- 
ment. 

"Can  it  be,  sir,  that  you've  not  yet  heard " 

"Heard  what?  Your  tongue's  like  a  turnip-watch  in  a 
fob  })ocket— out  with  it,  man." 

"Your  wife.  Captain " 

"What?     My  wife  disa What?    So  this  is  the  jeel  ! 

My  wife  mysteriously  disappear Oh,  my  gough  I " 

Pete  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter.     He  shouted,  roared,  lield 


326  THE   MANXMAN. 

his  sides,  doubled,  rocked  up  and  down,  and  at  length  flung 
himself  into  a  chair,  threw  back  his  head,  heaved  out  his  legs, 
and  shook  till  the  house  itself  seemed  to  quake. 

"  Well,  that's  good  !  that's  rich  !  that  bates  all  ! "  he  cried. 

The  child  awoke  on  Nancy's  knee  and  sent  its  thin  pipe 
through  Pete's  terrific  bass.  Caesar  opened  his  mouth  and 
gaped,  and  the  young  man,  now  white  and  afraid,  scraped 
and  backed  himself  to  the  door,  saying — 

"  Then  perhaps  it's  not  true,  after  all,  Capt'n  ?" 

"  Of  coorse  it's  not  true,"  said  Pete. 

"  Maybe  you  know  where  she's  gone." 

"Of  course  I  know  where's  she's  gone.  I  sent  her  there 
myself  ! " 

"You  did,  though  V  said  Caesar. 

"Yes.  did  I— to  England  by  the  night  sailing." 

"  'Deed,  man  I  "  said  Caesar. 

"The  doctor  ordered  it.  You  heard  him  yourself,  grand- 
father." 

"  Well,  that's  true,  too,"  said  Caesar. 

The  young  man  closed  his  long  note-book  and  backed  into 
a  throng  of  women  w^ho  had  come  up  to  the  porch.  "Of 
course,  if  you  say  so,  Capfn  Quilliam " 

"  I  do  say  so,"  shouted  Pete  ;  and  the  reporter  disappeared. 

The  voices  of  two  women  came  from  the  gulf  of  -white 
faces  wherein  the  reporter  had  been  swallowed  up.  "  I'm 
right  glad  it's  lies  they've  been  telling  of  her,  Capt'n,"  said 
the  first. 

"  Of  coorse  you  are.  Mistress  Kinnish,"  shouted  Pete. 

"  I  could  never  have  believed  tlie  like  of  the  same  ^voman, 
and  I  always  knew  the  child  was  brought  up  by  hand,"  said 
the  other. 

"  Coorse  you  couldn't,  Mistress  Kewley,"  Pete  replied. 

But  he  swung  up  and  kicked  the  door  to  in  their  faces. 
The  strangers  being  shut  out,  Caesar  said  cautiously — 

"  Do  3^ou  mane  that,  Peter  ? " 

"  Molly's  smoking  at  the  gate  like  a  bre^yer's  vat,  father," 
said  Pete. 

"  The  half  hasn't  been  told  you,  Peter.  Listen  to  me.  It's 
only  proper  you  should  hear  it.  When  you  were  away  at  Kim- 
berley  this  Ross  Christian  was  bothering  the  girl  terrible." 

"  She'll  be  getting  cold  so  long  out  of  the  stable,"  said  Pete. 


MAN    AND    WIKK  ;n_>7 

"  I  rohukctl  liiiii  myself,  sir.  ami  he  stuolr  uw  on  the  ln-ciw. 
Look  !  Here's  the  mark  of  liis  liaml  ovt'r  my  temple,  aiul  111 
be  earryiiij^  it  to  my  grave.'' 

''  Ross  Cliristiau  1  Ross  Christian  I  "  muttered  Pete  im- 
patiently. 

"By  the  Lord's  restrain  in  f]f  p^raee,  sir,  T  refrained  myself — 
hut  if  Mr.  Philip  hadn't  been  there  that  ni<,^ht— Fm  not  liouhl- 
inf^  with  violenee,  no,  resist  not  evil— hut  Mr.  I'hilip  fon^rht 
tlie  loose  liver  with  his  tist  for  me  ;  he  chastised  him,  sir  ; 
he " 

'*  D the  man  !  "  cried  Pete,  leaping  to  his  feet.    "  Wliat's 

he  to  me  or  my  wife  either  ?  " 

Cajsar  went  home  huffed,  angry,  and  unsatisfied.  And 
then,  all  being  gone  and  the  long  strain  over,  Pete  snatched 
the  puling  child  out  of  Nancy's  arms,  and  kissed  it  and  wept 
over  it. 

"Give  her  to  me,  the  bogh,''  he  cried,  hoai^se  as  a  raven 
and  then  sat  on  the  stool  before  the  fire,  and  rocked  the  little 
one  and  himself  together.  "If  I  hadn't  something  innocent 
to  lay  hould  of  I  should  be  going  mad,  that  I  should.  Oh, 
Katherine  bogh  I  Katherine  bogh  !  My  little  bogh  !  My  lil 
bogh  millish  !  " 

In  the  deep  hours  of  the  night,  after  Nancy  had  grumbled 
and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  by  the  side  of  the  child,  IVte  got 
up  from  the  sofa  in  the  parlour  and  stole  out  of  the  house 
again. 

"  She  may  come  up  with  the  morning  tide,"  he  told  him- 
self. "If  she  does,  what  matter  about  a  lie.  God  foi-give  me  i 
God  help  me,  what  matter  about  anything  {  " 

If  she  did  not,  he  would  stick  to  his  story,  so  that  when  she 
came  back,  wherever  she  had  been,  she  would  come  home  as 
an  honest  woman. 

"And  mil  be,  too,''  he  thought.  "Yes,  will  be,  too.  spite  of 
all  their  dirty  tongues — as  sure  as  the  Lord's  in  heaven.'' 

The  d<jg  trotted  on  in  front  of  him  as  he  turned  uptowartls 
Ballure. 


328  THE   MANXMAN. 


XIX. 


Philip  had  not  eaten  much  that  night  at  dinner.  He  had 
pecked  at  the  wing  of  a  fowl,  been  restless,  absent,  pre-occu- 
pied,  and  like  a  man  struggling  for  composure.  At  intervals 
he  had  listened  as  for  a  step  or  a  voice,  then  recovered  himself 
and  laughed  a  little. 

Auntie  Nan  had  explained  his  uneasiness  on  grounds  of 
natural  excitement  after  the  doings  of  the  great  day.  She  had 
loaded  his  plate  with  good  things,  and  chirruped  away  under 
the  light  of  the  lamp. 

"  So  sweet  of  you,  Philip,  not  to  forget  Pete  amid  all  your 
success.  He's  really  such  a  good  soul.  It  would  break  his 
heart  if  you  neglected  him.  Simple  as  a  child,  certainly,  and 
of  course  quite  uneducated,  but " 

"  Pete  is  fit  to  be  the  friend  of  any  one.  Auntie." 

"The  friend,  yes,  but  you'll  allow  not  exactly  the  com- 
panion  '' 

"  If  he  is  simple,  it  is  the  simplicity  of  a  natui^e  too  large 
for  little  things." 

"  The  dear  fellow  !    He's  not  a  bit  jealous  of  you,  Philip." 

"  Such  feelings  are  far  below  him.  Auntie." 

"  He's  your  first  cousin  after  all,  Philip.  There's  no  deny- 
ing that.     As  he  says,  the  blood  of  the  Christians  is  in  him." 

The  conversation  took  a  turn.  Auntie  Nan  fell  to  talking 
of  the  other  Peter,  uncle  Peter  Christian  of  Ballawhaine. 
This  was  the  day  of  the  big  man's  humiliation.  The  son  he 
had  doted  on  was  disgraced.  She  tried,  but  could  not  help 
it  ;  she  struggled,  but  could  not  resist  the  impulse — in  her 
secret  heart  the  tender  little  soul  rejoiced. 

"  Such  a  pity,"  she  sighed.  "  So  touching  when  a  father — 
no  matter  how  selfish — is  wrecked  hj  love  of  a  thankless  son. 
I'm  sorry,  indeed  I  am.  But  I  warned  him  six  years  ago. 
Didn't  I,  now  ?  " 

Philip  was  far  away.  He  was  seeing  visions  of  Pete  going 
home,  the  deserted  house,  the  empty  cradle,  the  desolate  man 
alone  and  heart-broken. 

They  rose  from  the  table  and  went  into  the  little  parlour. 
Auntie  Nan  on  Philip's  arm,  proud  and  happy.  She  fluttered 
down  to  the  piano  and  sang,  to  cheer  him  up  a  little,  an  old 
song  in  a  quavering  old  voice. 


i 


MAN    AND    Wll-K.  329 

"Of  the  wjuidcritii:  falcon 
Tho  cuckoo  coiiipluins, 
Ho  has  torn  licr  warm  nest, 
He  has  scattered  her  young." 

Suddenly  Philip  gjot  up  stiflly,  and  said  in  a  liwsky  uliispor, 
"  Isn't  that  his  voice  ?  " 

-  Who's,  dear  t  " 

"Pete's." 

"Where,  dearest?" 

"In  the  hall." 

"  I  hear  nobody.  Let  me  look.  No,  Pete's  not  here.  But 
how  pale  you  are,  Philip.     What's  amiss  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Philip.     "  I  only  thought " 

"  Take  some  wine,  dear,  or  some  brandy.  You've  over- 
tired yourself  to-tlay,  and  no  wonder.  You  must  have  a  long, 
long  rest  to-night." 

"Yes  I'll  go  to  bed  at  once." 

"So  soon  !  Well,  perhaps  it's  best.  You  want  sleep:  your 
eyes  show  that.  Martha !  Is  everything  ready  in  the  Deem- 
ster's room  ?  All  but  the  lamp  ?  Take  it  up,  Martha.  Philip, 
you'll  drink  a  little  brandy  and  water  lu^i  ?  I'll  carry  it  to 
your  room  then  :  you  might  need  it  in  the  night.  Go  before 
me,  dear.  Yes,  yes,  you  must.  Do  you  think  I  want  you  to 
see  how  old  I  am  when  I'm  going  upstairs  ?  Ah  !  I  hadn't  to 
climb  by  the  banisters  this  way  when  I  came  first  to  Bal- 
lui-e." 

On  reaching  the  landing,  Philip  was  turning  to  hi^  old 
room,  the  bedroom  he  had  oocui)ied  from  his  IxnluxKl  up.  the 
bednKim  of  his  mother  s  father,  old  Capt'n  Billy. 

"Not  that  way  to-night,  Philip.  This  wny— there!  What 
do  you  say  to  that  f " 

She  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  room  opposite,  and  the 
glow  of  the  fire  within  rush'^d  out  on  them. 

"My  father's  room,"  .siiid  Philij),  and  he  stepped  back. 

"  Oh.  I've  aired  it,  and  it's  not  a  bit  the  worse  for  being  so 
long  shut  up.  See,  it's  like  toast.  Oo — oo— oo!  Not  the  le;ii>l 
sign  of  my  breath.     Come  I" 

"No,  Auntie,  no." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  ghosts  ?  There's  only  one  ghost  lives 
here,  Philip,  the  memory  of  your  dear  father,  and  that  will 
never  harm  you." 


330  THE   MANXMAN. 

"But  this  place  is  too  sacred.  No  one  has  slept  here 
since " 

"  That's  why,  dearest.  But  now  you  have  justified  your 
father's  hopes,  and  it  must  be  your  room  for  the  future.  Ah ! 
if  he  could  only  see  you  himself,  how  proud  he  would  be! 
Poor  father !  Perhaps  he  does.  Who  knows — perhaps — kiss 
me,  Philip.  See  what  an  old  silly  I  am,  after  all.  So  happy 
that  I  have  to  cry.  But  mind  now,  you've  got  to  sleep  in  this 
room  every  time  you  come  to  hold  court  in  Ramsey.  I  refuse 
to  share  you  with  Elm  Cottage  any  longer.  Talk  about  jeal- 
ousy !  If  Pete  isn't  jealous,  I  know  somebody  who  is— or  soon 
will  be.     But  Philip— PhHip  Christian " 

''Yes?" 

The  sweet  old  face  grew  solemn.  "The  greatest  man  has 
his  cares  and  doubts  and  divisions.  That's  only  natural  — out 
in  the  open  field  of  life.  But  don't  be  ashamed  to  come  here 
whenever  you  are  in  trouble.  It's  w^hat  home  is  for,  Philip. 
Just  a  place  of  peace  and  shelter  from  the  rough  world,  when 
it  wounds  and  hurts  you.  A  quiet  spot,  dear,  with  memories 
of  father  and  mother  and  innocent  childhood — and  with  ail 
old  goose  of  an  auntie,  maybe,  who  thinks  of  you  all  day  aiid 
every  day,  and  is  so  vain  and  foolish — and — and  who  loves 
you.  Philip,  better  than  anybody  in  the  world." 

Philip's  arms  were  about  the  old  soul,  but  he  had  not  heard 
her.  With  a  terrified  glance  towards  the  window,  he  was 
saying  in  a  low  quick  voice,  "Isn't  that  a  footstep  on  the 
gravel  ? " 

"N — o,  no!  You're  nervous  to-night,  Philip.  Lie  and 
rest.     When  youVe  asleep,  I'll  creep  back  and  look  at  you." 

She  left  him,  and  he  looked  around.  Not  in  all  the  world 
could  Philip  have  found  a  spot  so  full  of  terrors.  It  was  like 
a  sepulchre  of  dead  things— his  dead  father,  his  dead  mother, 
his  dead  youth,  his  dead  innocence,  his  slaughtered  friendship, 
and  his  outraged  conscience. 

Over  the  fireplace  hung  a  portrait  of  his  m.otber.  It  was 
the  picture  of  a  comely  girl,  young  and  soft,  with  full  ripe  lips 
and  bright  brown  eyes.  Philip  slmddered  as  he  looked  at  it. 
The  portrait  was  like  the  ghost  of  himself  looking  through  the 
veil  of  a  woman's  face. 

Facing  this,  and  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  bed.  was  a 
portrait  of  his  father.    The  eyes  were  full  of  light,  the  lines  of 


MAN  AND  wiri:.  33 X 

the  cheek  were  round  ;  tlie  mouth  seemed  to  quiver  with  a 
tender  smile.  But  Philip  oould  not  sec  it  as  it  was.  He  s;iw 
it  with  stracrffliiig:  hair,  damp  and  lonp^  as  reeds,  the  cliceks 
pallid  and  drawn,  tlie  eyes  like  lani])s  in  a  mist,  the  throat  haro 
of  the  sliirt,  and  the  lips  k('i)t  apart  hy  lahourcd  l)r('athin«f. 

Near  the  window  stood  the  cot  where  he  had  once  slept  with 
Pete,  and  leaped  up  in  the  morning  and  lau<,died.  ( )n  every 
hand,  wherever  his  eye  could  rest,  there  rose  a  pliantom  of  his 
lost  and  buried  life.  And  Auntie  Nannie's  love  and  pride  had 
bi*ou<;^ht  liim  to  this  chamber  of  torture! 

The  nit^ht  was  calm  enough  outside;  but  it  seemed  to  lie 
dead  within  that  room,  so  quiet  was  it  and  so  still.  There  was 
a  clock,  but  it  did  not  go;  and  there  was  a  cage  for  a  Ijird.  hut 
no  bird  pecked  in  it. 

Philip  thought  he  lieard  a  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
house.  Nobody  answered  it,  so  he  rang  for  the  maid.  She 
came  upstaii's  with  a  smile. 

"Didn't  you  hear  a  knock  at  the  front  door,  Martha  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  girl. 

"Strange!  Very  strange!  I  could  have  sworn  it  wa«  the 
knock  of  Mr.  Quilliam.'' 

"Perhaps  it  was,  sir.     Til  go  and  look." 

"  No  matter.  I've  a  singing  in  my  ears  to-night.  It  must 
be  that." 

The  girl  left  him.  He  threw  off  his  boots  and  began  to 
creep  about  the  room  as  if  he  were  doing  something  in  which 
he  feared  detection.  Every  time  liis  eyes  fell  on  the  portrait 
of  his  father  he  dropped  his  head  and  turned  aside.  Presently 
he  heard  voices  in  the  room  below.  This  time  the  sound  in 
his  ears  was  no  dream.ing.  He  opened  the  door  noiselessly 
and  listened.  It  was  Pete.  Martha  was  answering  him. 
Auntie  Nan  was  calling  from  the  dining-room,  and  Pete  was 
saying  "No.  no,"  in  a  light  way  and  moving  off.  The  gate  of 
the  garden  clicked  and  the  front  door  was  closed  (piietly. 
Then  Philip  shut  the  door  of  his  own  room  without  a  sound. 

A  moment  later  Auntie  Nan  ixj-opencd  it.  She  was  carry- 
ing a  lighted  candle. 

"Such  an  extraordinary  thing,   Philij>.     Martha  .siys  you 

thouglit  you  heard  Peter  knocking,  and.  do  you    know,  he 

must  have  Ix^en  coming  up  the  hill  at  that  very  niomrnt.     He 

was  so  strange,  too,  and  looked  so  wihl.     Asked  if  anybody 

22 


332  THE   MANXMAN. 

had  been  here  inquiring  for  him  ;  as  if  anybody  should. 
Wouldn't  have  me  call  to  you,  and  went  off  laughing  about 
nothing.     Eeally,  if  I  hadn't  known  him  for  a  sober  man " 

Philip  felt  sick  and  chill,  and  he  began  to  shiver.  An  irre- 
sistible impulse  took  hold  of  him.  It  was  like  the  half-smoth- 
ered fear  which  makes  guilty  men  go  to  sit  at  the  inquests  on 
their  murdered  victims. 

"  Something  wrong,"  he  said.     "  Where  are  my  boots  ? " 

"  Going  to  Elm  Cottage,  Philip  ?  Pity  the  coachman  drove 
back  to  Douglas.  Hadn't  you  better  send  Martha  ?  Besides, 
it  may  be  only  my  fancy.  Why  worry  in  any  case  ?  You're 
too  tender-hearted — indeed  you  are." 

Philip  fled  downstaii's  like  one  who  flies  from  torture. 
While  dragging  on  his  coat  in  the  hall,  he  began  to  foresee 
what  was  before  him.  He  was  to  go  to  Pete,  pretending  to 
know  nothing  ;  he  was  to  hear  Pete's  story,  and  show  sur- 
prise ;  he  was  to  comfort  Pete — perhaps  to  help  him  in  his 
search,  for  he  dared  not  appear  not  to  help — he  was  to  walk 
by  Pete's  side,  looking  for  what  he  knew  they  should  not 
find.  He  saw  himself  crawling  along  the  streets  like  a  snake, 
and  the  part  he  had  to  play  revolted  him.  He  went  upstairs 
again. 

''  On  second  thoughts,  you  must  be  right,  auntie." 

"I'm  sure  I  am." 

"If  not,  he'll  come  again." 

"I'm  sure  he  will." 

"If  there's  anything  amiss  with  Pete,  he'll  come  fii'st  to 
me." 

"There  can  be  nothing  amiss  except  what  I  say.  Just  a 
glass  too  much  maybe  and  no  great  sin  either,  considering  the 
day,  and  how  proud  he  is,  for  your  sake,  Philip.  I  believe  in 
my  heart  that  young  man  couldn't  be  prouder  and  happier  if 
he  stood  in  your  own  shoes  instead." 

"  Good-night,  Auntie,"  said  Philip,  in  a  thick  gurgle. 

"Good-night,  dear.  I'm  going  to  bed,  and  mind  you  go 
yourself." 

Being  alone,  Philip  found  himself  leaning  against  the 
mantelpiece  and  looking  across  at  his  father's  picture.  He 
began  to  contrast  his  father  with  himself.  He  was  a  success, 
his  father  had  been  a  failure.  At  seven-and-twenty  he  was 
Deemster  at  all  events  ;  at  thirty  his  father  had  died  a  broken 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  033 

man.  TIo  had  prot  wliat  lu^  had  workiHl  for  ;  he  liad  recov- 
ered Ihe  \Ai\co  of  his  pooph^  ;  and  yet  liow  mean  a  man  Ik;  was 
compared  to  liini  wlio  had  done  notliinj;  and  lo.st  all. 

Failure  was  all  that  his  father  liad  had  to  reproach  himself 
with  ;  but  he  had  to  accuse  himself  of  dishonour  as  well.  His 
father's  offence  had  been  a  fault  ;  his  own  was  a  crime.  If 
his  father  had  been  willinpr  to  betray  love  and  friendshi]),  be 
mi<rht  have  succeeded.  Because  he  himself  had  been  true  to 
neither,  he  had  not  failed.  The  very  excess  of  his  father's 
virtues  had  kept  him  down.  Every  act  of  his  own  selfishness 
had  pushed  him  up.  His  father  had  thoug^ht  first  of  love  and 
truth  and  an  upright  life,  and  last  of  money  and  rank  and 
applause.  Tlie  world  had  renounced  his  father  because  his 
father  had  first  renounced  the  world.  But  it  had  opened  its 
arms  to  him,  and  followed  him  witli  shouts  and  cheers,  and 
loaded  him  with  honours.  And  yet,  miserable  man,  better  be 
down  in  the  ooze  and  slime  of  a  broken  life,  better  be  dead  and 
in  the  grave — for  the  dead  in  his  grave  nmst  despise  him. 

An  awful  picture  rose  before  Philip.  It  was  a  picture  of 
himself  in  the  time  to  come.  An  old  man— great,  powerful, 
perhaps  even  beloved,  maybe  wor.s]iipix^d,  but  heart-dead,  tot- 
tering on  to  the  grave,  and  the  mockery  of  a  gorgeous  funeral, 
with  crowds  and  drums  and  solemn  music.  Then  suddenly  a 
great  .silence,  as  if  the  snow  had  begun  to  fall,  and  a  great 
white  light,  and  an  awful  voice  crying, ''  Who  is  this  that  comes 
with  dust  for  a  bleeding  heart,  and  ashes  for  a  living  soul  ? " 

Philip  screamed  aloud  at  the  vision,  as  piece  by  piece  he 
put  it  together.  His  cry  died  off  with  a  tingle  in  the  china 
ornaments  of  the  mantelpiece,  and  he  rcmem])ered  where  he 
was.  Then  two  gentle  taps  canie  to  the  door  of  his  room. 
He  compose<l  himself  a  little,  snatched  up  a  book,  and  cried 
*'  Come  in  ! " 

It  was  Auntie  Nan.  She  was  in  her  night-dress  and  night- 
cap.    A  candle  was  in  her  hand,  and  the  Ihime  was  shaking. 

"  Whatever's  to  do,  my  child  ?"  she  .said. 

"  Only  reading  aloud,  Auntie.     Did  I  awaken  you  ?" 

"But  you  .screamed,  Philip." 

"Macbeth,  Auntie.  See,  the  banquet  scene.  He  has  be- 
come king,  you  know,  but  his  conscience " 

He  stopped.  The  little  lady  looked  at  him  dubiously  and 
made  a  pull  at  the  string  of  her  night-cap,  causing  it  to  fall 


334:  THE  MANXMAN. 

aside  and  give  a  grotesque  appearance  to  her  troubled  old 
face. 

"  Take  a  little  brandy,  dear.  I  left  it  here  on  the  dressing- 
table.'' 

"  Don't  trouble  about  me,  Auntie.  Good-night  again. 
There  I  go  back  to  bed." 

HaK  coaxing,  half  forcing  her,  he  drew  her  to  the  door, 
and  she  went  out  slowly,  reluctantly,  doubtfully,  the  wander- 
ing strings  of  her  cap  trailing  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  bare 
feet  flipping  up  the  bottom  of  the  night-dress  behind  her. 

Philip  looked  at  the  book  he  had  snatched  up  in  his  haste. 
What  had  put  that  book  of  all  books  into  his  hand  ?  What 
had  brought  him  to  that  room  of  all  rooms  ?  And  on  that 
night  of  all  nights  ?  What  devil  out  of  hell  had  tempted 
Auntie  Nan  to  torture  him  ?  He  would  not  stay  ;  he  would 
go  back  to  his  own  bed. 

Out  on  the  landing  he  heard  a  low  voice.  It  came  from 
Auntie  Nan's  room.  A  spear  of  candle-light  shot  from  her 
door,  which  w^as  ajar.  He  paused  and  looked  in.  The  white 
night-dress  was  by  the  bedside,  the  night-cap  was  buried  in 
the  counterpane.  A  cat  had  established  itself  beside  it,  and 
was  purring  softly.  Auntie  Nan  was  on  her  knees.  Philip 
heard  his  own  name 

"  God  bless  my  PhiliiD  in  the  great  place  to  which  he  has 
been  called  this  day.  Give  him  wisdom  and  strength  and 
peace  ! " 

Holy  woman,  with  angels  hovering  over  you.  who  dared 
to  think  of  devils  temi^ting  your  innocence  and  love  ? 

Philip  Avent  back  to  his  father's  room.  He  began  to  rec- 
oncile himself  to  his  position.  Though  he  had  been  extolling 
his  father  at  his  own  expense,  what  had  he  done  but  realise 
his  father's  hopes.  And,  after  all,  he  could  not  have  acted 
differently.  At  no  point  could  he  have  behaved  otherwise 
than  he  had.  What  had  he  to  accuse  himself  for  ?  If  there 
had  been  sin,  he  had  been  dragged  into  it  by  blind  powers 
which  he  could  not  command.  And  what  was  true  of  himself 
was  also  true  of  Kate. 

Ah  !  he  could  see  her  now.  She  was  gone  where  he  had 
sent  her.  There  were  tears  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  but  time 
would  wipe  them  away.  The  duplicity  of  her  old  life  was 
over;  the  corroding  deceit,  the  daily  torment,  the  hourly  infi- 


iMAN    AND   WIFK.  335 

dolity — all  were  left  behind.  If  tliei-e  was  n^morse.  it  was  tlie 
fault  of  destiny;  and  if  she  was  sutl'erinjx  tlie  pan^jrs  of  shame, 
she  was  a  wonum,  and  slu^  would  l>ear  it  cheerfully  for  the 
sjike  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  was  K^'i^K  throuj^h  ever}'- 
thing  for  him.  Heaven  bless  her  I  In  sjjite  of  man  and 
man's  law,  she  was  his  love,  his  darlin*::,  his  wife — yes,  his 
wife — by  rip^ht  of  nature  and  of  God;  and.  come  what  would, 
he  should  cling  to  her  to  the  hist. 

Suddenly  a  thick  voice  cut  through  the  still  air  of  the 
night. 

-Philip:" 

It  was  Pete  at  last.  He  was  calling  up  at  the  window  fi-om 
the  path  below.  Philip  groaned  and  covered  his  face  with  liis 
hands. 

'•  Philip  ! " 

With  rigid  steps  Philip  walked  to  the  window  and  threw 
up  the  sash.  It  was  starlight,  and  the  branches  were  bending 
in  the  night  aii'. 

"  Is  it  you,  Pete  ? " 

"  Yes,  it's  me.  I  was  seeing  the  lamp,  so  I  knew  you  war'n 
in  bed  at  all.  Studdying  a  bit,  it's  like,  eh  ?  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  waken  the  house,  but  just  shout  up  and  tell  you." 

"  What  is  it,  Pete  ?"  said  Philip.  His  voice  shivered  like  a 
sail  at  tacking. 

"  Nothing  much  at  all.  Only  the  wife's  gone  to  England 
over  by  the  night's  steamer." 

"  To  England  ? " 

''Aw,  time  for  it  too,  I'm  thinking;  the  wake  and  narvous 
she's  been  lately.  You  rememl)er  what  the  doctor  was  saying 
yonder  everin,'  when  we  christened  the  child  ?  'Send  her  out 
of  the  island,' says  he,  '  and  she'll  be  coming  home  another 
woman.'  Wasn't  for  going,  though.  Crying  and  shouting 
she  wouldn't  be  laving  the  lil  one.  So  I  had  to  put  out  a  bit 
of  authority.  Of  course,  a  husband's  got  the  right  to  do  that, 
Philip,  eh  ?  Well,  I'll  be  taking  the  road  again.  Doing  a  fine 
night,  isn't  it  ?     Make's  a  man  unwilling  to  go  to  bed." 

Philip  trembled  and  felt  sick.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  could 
utter  nothing  except  an  inarticulate  noise.  As  Pete  went  off, 
an  owl  screeched  in  i]u\  glen.  Philij)  drew  down  the  sa.sh, 
pulled  the  blind,  tugged  the  curtains  acros-s,  stumbled  into. the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  leaned  against  the  bed. 


336  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Such  is  the  beginning  of  the  end,"  he  thought. 

The  duplicity,  the  deceit,  the  daily  torment  which  Kate  had 
left  behind,  were  henceforward  to  be  his  own  !  At  one  flash, 
as  of  lightning,  he  saw  the  path  before  him.  It  was  over  cliffs 
and  chasms  and  quagmires,  where  his  foot  might  slip  at  any 
step. 

His  head  began  to  reel.  He  took  the  brandy  bottle  from 
the  dressing-table,  poured  out  half  a  tumbler,  and  drained  it 
at  one  draught.  As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  above  the  rim  of  the 
glass  rested  on  the  portrait  of  his  mother  over  the  fireplace. 
The  face  as  he  saw  it  then  was  no  longer  the  face  of  the  win- 
some bride.  It  was  the  living  face  as  he  remembered  it — 
bleared,  bloated,  gross,  and  drunken.  She  smiled  on  him,  she 
beckoned  to  him. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  indeed.  He  was  his  moth- 
er's son  as  well  as  his  father's.  The  father  had  ruled  down  to 
that  day,  but  it  was  the  turn  of  the  mother  now.  He  could 
not  resist  her.     She  was  alive  in  his  blood,  and  he  was  hers. 

Never  before  had  he  touched  raw  spirits,  and  the  brandy 
mastered  him  instantly.  Feeling  dizzy,  he  made  an  effort  to 
undress  and  get  into  bed.  He  dragged  off  his  coat  and  his 
waistcoat,  and  threw  his  braces  over  his  shoulders.  Then  he 
stumbled,  and  he  had  to  lay  hold  of  the  bedpost.  His  hand 
grew  chill  and  relaxed  its  hold.  Stupor  came  over  him.  He 
slipped,  he  slid,  he  fell,  and  rolled  with  outstretched  arms  on 
to  the  floor.     The  fire  went  out  and  the  lamp  died  down. 

Then  the  sun  came  up  over  the  sea.  It  was  a  beautiful 
morning.  The  town  awoke;  people  hailed  each  other  cheer- 
fully in  the  streets,  and  joy- bells  rang  from  the  big  church 
tower  for  the  first  court-day  of  the  new  Deemster.  But  the 
Deemster  himself  still  lay  on  the  floor,  with  damp  forehead 
and  matted  hair,  behind  the  blind  of  the  darkened  room. 


PARl^   V. 
MAN  AND  MAN, 


I. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  the  market-place  was  covered  with 
the  carts  and  stiiUs  of  the  country  people.  After  some  feint 
of  eating  breakfast,  Pete  lit  his  pipe,  called  for  a  basket,  and 
announced  his  intention  of  doing  the  marketing. 

"Coming  for  the  mistress,  are  you,  Capt'n  ?" 

"  I'm  a  sort  of  a  grass- widow,  ma'am.  What's  your  eggs 
to-day,  Mistress  Cowley  ? " 

"  Sixteen  this  morning,  sir,  and  right  ones  too.  They  were 
telling  me  you've  been  losing  her." 

"Give  me  a  shilling's  worth,  then.  Any  news  over  your 
side,  Mag  ? " 

"Two— four — eight — sixteen— it's  every  appearance  we'll 
be  getting  a  early  harvest,  Capt'n." 

"  Is  it  yourself,  Liza  ?     And  how's  your  butter  to-day  ? " 

"  Bad  to  bate  to-day,  sir,  and  only  thirteen  pence  ha*i)enny. 
Is  the  lil  one  longing  for  the  mistress,  Capt'n  i " 

"I'll  take  a  couple  of  pounds,  then.  Wliat  for  longing  at 
all  when  it's  going  bringing  up  b3'  hand  it  is  ?  Put  it  in  a  cab- 
bage leaf,  Liza." 

Thus,  wnth  his  basket  on  his  arm  and  his  ])i])e  in  liis  inoutli, 
Pete  passed  from  stall  to  stall,  chatting,  laughing,  bargaining, 
buying,  shouting  his  salutiitions  over  the  general  hum  and 
hubbub,  as  he  ploughed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  but  lis- 
tening intently,  watching  eagerly,  Citstingout  grai)ples  to  catch 
the  anchor  he  had  lost,  and  feeling  all  the  time  that  if  any  eye 
showed  sign  of  knowledge,  if  any  one  began  with  "Capt'n,  I 
can  tell  you  where  she  is,"  he  must  leap  on  the  man  like  a 
tiger,  and  strangle  the  revelation  in  his  throat. 

Next  day,  Sunday,  his  friends  from  Sulby  came  to  quiz  and 

(33TJ 


338  THE  MANXMAN. 

to  question.  He  was  lounging  in  his  shirt-sleeves  on  a  deck- 
chair  in  his  ship's  cabin,  smoking  a  long  pipe,  and  pretending 
to  be  at  ease  and  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

"  Fine  morning,  Capt'n,"  said  John  the  Clerk., 

"  It  is  doing  a  fine  morning,  John,"  said  Pete. 

"  Fine  on  the  sea,  too,''  said  Jonaique. 

"Wonderful  fine  on  the  sea,  Mr.  Jelly." 

"  A  nice  fair  wind,  though,  if  anybody  was  going  by  the 
packet  to  Liverpool.  Was  it  as  good,  think  you,  for  the  mis- 
tress on  Friday  night,  Mr.  Quilliam  ? " 

"  I'll  gallantee,"  said  Pete. 

"  Plucky,  though — I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  the  same 
woman — I  wouldn't  raelly,"  said  Jonaique. 

"Alone,  too,  and  landing  on  the  other  side  so  early  in  the 
morning,"  said  John  the  Clerk. 

"  Smart,  uncommon  !  It  isn't  every  woman  would  have 
done  it,"  said  Kelly  the  Postman. 

"  Aw^,  we've  mighty  boys  of  W'Omen  deese  days — we  have 
dough,"  snutfled  the  constable,  and  then  they  all  laughed  to- 
gether. 

Pete  watched  their  wheedling,  fawning,  and  whisking  of 
the  tail,  and  then  he  said,  '*  Chut  I  What's  there  so  wonderful 
about  a  woman  going  by  herself  to  Liverpool  when  she's  got 
somebody  waiting  at  the  stage  to  meet  her  ? " 

The  laughing  faces  lengthened  suddenly.  "And  had  she, 
then,"  said  John  the  Clerk. 

Pete  puffed  furiously,  rolled  in  his  seat,  laughed  like  a  man 
with  a  mouth  full  of  w^ater,  and  said,  "Why,  sartenly — my 
uncle,  of  coorse." 

Jonaique  wrinkled  his  forehead.  "  Uncle,"  he  said,  with  a 
click  in  his  throat. 

"  Yes,  my  Uncle  Joe,"  said  Pete. 

Jonaique  looked  helplessly  across  at  John  the  Clerk.  John 
the  Clerk  puckered  up  his  mouth  as  if  about  to  whistle,  and 
then  said,  in  a  faltering  way,  "  Well,  I  can't  really  say  I've 
e\er  heard  tell  of  your  Uncle  Joe  before,  Capt'n. " 

"  No  ?"  said  Pete,  with  a  look  of  astonishment.  "  Not  my 
Uncle  Joseph  ?  The  one  that  left  the  island  forty  years  ago 
and  started  in  the  coach  and  cab  line  ?  Well,  that's  curious. 
Where's  he  living  ?  Bless  me,  where's  this  it  is,  now  ?  Chut ! 
it's  clane  forgot  at  me.     But  I  saw  him  myself  coming  home 


MAN    AND    MAN.  339 

from  Kinil)orley,  and  siiico  tluMi  lie's  been  writiii;r  constant. 
'Solid  lier  acro.s.s,'  says  lie  ;  *  slio'll  l)c  lior  own  woman  a;,''ain 
like  winkinf^,'  And  you  never  heard  tell  of  him  {  Not  Unclo 
Joey  with  the  bald  liead  ?  Well,  well  !  A  smart  ould  man, 
thoufrh.  Man  alive,  tlie  lively  he  is.  too,  and  the  laufjhable, 
and  the  fjood  eompany.  To  look  at  that  mauV  faee  you'd  .say 
the  sun  was  shiniiifj:  repr'lar.  Aw,  it's  line  times  she'll  be  bav- 
ins^ with  Uncle  Joe.  No  woman  could  be  ill  with  yonder 
ould  man  about.  He'd  break  your  face  with  lauLrhin^'  if  it 
was  bursting'  itself  with  a  squinsey.  And  you  never  heard 
tell  of  my  Uncle  Joe,  of  Scotland  Road,  down  Clarence  Dock 
way  ?    To  think  of  that  now  I '' 

They  went  otf  with  looks  of  perplexity,  and  Pete  turned 
into  the  house.  "They're  trying:  to  catch  me;  they're  want- 
ing to  shame  m\'  poor  lil  Kirry.  I  must  keep  her  name 
sweet,"  he  thought. 

The  church  bells  had  begun  to  ring,  and  he  was  telling 
himself  that,  heavy  though  his  heart  might  be,  he  must  behav^e 
as  usual. 

"She'll  be  going  walking  to  church  h(>rself  this  morning, 
Nancy,"  he  said,  putting  on  his  coat,  "so  I'll  just  slip  across  to 
chapel." 

He  was  swinging  up  the  ])ath  on  his  return  home  to  dinner, 
when  he  heard  voices  inside  the  house. 

"It's  shocking  to  see  the  man  bittending  this  and  bittend- 
ingthat."  It  was  Nancy;  she  was  laying  the  table;  there  was 
a  rattle  of  knives  and  forks.  "Bittending  to  ate,  but  only 
pecking  like  a  robin;  bittending  to  sleep,  but  never  a  wink  on 
the  night;  bittending  to  laugh  and  to  joke  and  wink,  and  a 
face  at  him  like  a  ghose's,  and  his  hair  all  through-others. 
Walking  about  from  river  to  quay,  and  going  on  with  all  that 
ru])bish — it's  shocking,  ma'am,  it's  shocking  !  " 

"Hush-a-bye,  hush-a-bye  !"  It  was  the  voice  of  Grannie, 
low  and  quavery;  she  was  rocking  the  cradle. 

"You  can't  spake  to  him  neither  but  he's  scolding  you 
scandalous.  'I'm  not  used  of  being  cursed  at,'  I'm  saying, 
'and  is  it  myself  that  has  to  Ix'  tould  to  respect  my  own  Kitty  ^ 
But  cry  shame  on  her  I  must  when  I  look  at  the  lil  bogh  there, 
and  it  so  helpless  and  so  beautiful.  'Stericks,  j'ou  say  ?  Yes, 
indeed,  ma'am,  and  if  I  stay  here  much  longer,  it's  losing  my- 
self I  will  be,  too,  with  his  bittending  and  bittending." 


3^,0  THE   MANXMAN. 

"Lave  "him  to  it,  Nancy.  His  poor  head's  that  moidered 
and  mixed  it's  like  a  black  pudding— there's  no  saying  what's 
inside  of  it.  But  he's  good,  though ;  aw,  right  good  he  is  for 
all,  and  the  world's  cold  and  cruel.  Lave  him  alone,  woman ; 
lave  him  alone,  poor  boy. " 

The  child  awoke  and  cried,  and,  under  cover  of  this  com- 
motion and  the  crowing  and  cooing  of  the  two  women,  Pete 
stepped  back  to  the  gate,  clashed  it  hard,  swung  noisily  up  the 
gravel,  and  rolled  into  the  house  with  a  shout  and  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  well  !  Grannie,  my  gough  !  Who'd  have  thought 
of  seeing  Grannie,  now  ?  And  how's  the  ould  angel  to-day  ? 
So  you  ve  got  the  lil  one  there  ?  Aw,  you  rogue,  you.  You're 
on  Grannie's  lap,  are  you  ?  How's  Cagsar  ?  And  how's  Mrs. 
Gorry  doing  ?  Look  at  that  now— did  you  ever  ?  Opening 
one  eye  first  to  make  sure  if  the  world's  all  right.  The  child's 
wise.  Coo— oo — oo  !  Smart  with  the  dinner,  Nancy— won- 
derful hungry  the  chapel's  making  a  man.  Coo — oo  !  What's 
she  like,  now,  Grannie  ?  " 

"  When  I  set  her  to  my  knee  like  this  I  can  see  my  own  lil 
Kirry  again,''  said  Grannie,  looking  down  ruefully,  rocking 
the  child  with  one  knee  and  doubling  over  it  to  kiss  it. 

"  So  she's  like  the  mammy,  is  she  ?  "  said  Pete,  blowing  at 
the  baby  and  tickling  its  chin  with  his  broad  forefinger. 
"Mammy's  gone  to  the  ould  uncle's — hasn't  she,  my  1am- 
mie?" 

At  that  Grannie  fell  to  rocking  herself  as  well  as  the  child, 
and  to  singing  a  hymn  in  a  quavery  voice.  Then  with  a  rat- 
tle and  a  rush,  throwing  off  his  coat  and  tramping  the  floor  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  while  Nancy  dished  up  the  dinner,  Pete  be- 
gan to  enlarge  on  Kate's  happiness  in  the  place  where  she  had 
gone. 

"  Tremenjous  grand  the  ould  man's  house  is — you  wouldn't 
believe.  A  reg'lar  Dempster's  palace.  The  grandeur  on  it  is 
a  show  and  a  pattern.  Plenty  to  ate,  plenty  to  drink,  and  a 
boy  at  the  door  with  white  buttons  dotting  on  his  brown  coat, 
bless  you  like — like  a  turnip-field  in  winter.  Then  the  man 
himself;  goodness  me,  the  happy  that  man  is — Happy  Joe 
they're  calling  him.  Wouldn't  trust  but  he'll  be  taking  Kate 
to  a  theaytre.  Well,  and  why  not,  if  a  person's  down  a  bit  ? 
A  merry  touch  and  go — where's  the  harm  at  all  ?  Fact  is, 
Grannie,  that's  why  we  couldn't  tell  you  Kate  was  going. 


MAX    AND    MAN.  34{ 

Caesar  would  have  boiMi  objecting.  He's  fit  onoiin;-]i  for  it — 
ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

Grannie  looked  up  at  Pete  as  he  laufi^hed,  and  the  ]>road 
rose  withered  on  his  face. 

"H'ml  h'm  1 "  he  said,  clearing:  his  throat;  ''I'm  bad 
dreadful  wanting  a  sniook."  And  past  the  dinner-table,  now 
sniokjng  and  ready,  he  slithered  out  of  the  house. 

Caisar  was  Pete's  next  visitor.  He  said  nothing  of  Kate, 
and  neither  did  Pete  mention  Uncle  Joe.  The  interview  was 
a  brief  and  grim  one.  It  was  a  lie  that  Ross  Cbristian  had 
been  sent  by  his  father  to  ask  for  a  loan,  but  it  was  true  that 
Peter  Christian  was  in  urgent  need  of  money.  He  wanted  six 
thousand  pounds  as  mortgage  on  Ballawhaine.  Had  Pete  got 
so  much  to  lend  ?  No  need  for  pei'sonal  intercourse ;  Csesar 
would  act  as  intermediary. 

Fete  took  only  a  moment  for  consideration.  Yes,  he  had 
got  the  money,  and  he  would  lend  it.  Caesar  looked  at  Pete; 
Pet€  looked  at  Caesar.  "  He's  talking  all  this  rubbish,"  thought 
Caesar,  ''  but  he  knows  where  the  girl  has  gone  to.  He  knows 
who's  taken  her;  he  manes  to  kick  the  rascal  out  of  his  own 
house  neck  and  crop;  and  right  enough,  too,  and  the  Lord's 
own  vengeance." 

But  Pete's  thoughts  were  another  matter.  "  The  ould  man 
won't  live  to  redeem  it,  and  the  young  one  will  never  try— 
it'll  do  for  Philip  some  day." 


n.  • 

For  three  days  Pete  bore  himself  according  to  his  wont, 
thinking  to  silence  the  evil  tongues  of  the  little  world  about 
him,  and  keep  sweet  and  alive  the  dear  name  which  they  were 
waiting  to  befoul  and  destroy.  By  Tuesday  morning  the 
strain  had  become  unbearable.  On  pretences  of  busines.s,  of 
pleasure,  of  God  knows  what  folly  and  nonsense,  he  began  to 
scour  the  island.  He  visited  every  parisli  on  the  north,  passeil 
through  every  village,  cliinlxid  every  glen,  found  his  way  into 
every  out-of-the-way  hut,  and  scraped  acquaintance  with  every 
old  woman  living  alone.  Sometimes  be  was  up  in  the  vague 
fore-dawn,  creeping  through  the  quiet  sti-eets  like  a  tliief,  go- 
ing silently,  stealthily,  warily,  until  he  came  to  the  ix^ads,  or 


342  THE  MANXMAN. 

the  fields,  or  the  open  Curragh,  and  could  give  swing  to  his 
step,  and  breath  to  his  lungs,  and  voice  to  the  cries  that  burst 
from  him. 

Two  long  weeks  he  spent  in  this  wild  quest,  and  meanwhile 
he  was  as  happy  as  a  boy  to  all  outward  seeming — w^histling, 
laughing,  chaffing,  bawling,  talking  nonsense,  any  nonsense, 
and  kicking  up  his  heels  like  a  kid.  But  wheresoever  he 
went,  and  howsoever  early  he  started  on  his  errands,  he  never 
failed  to  be  back  at  home  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening — 
washed,  combed,  in  his  slij)pers  and  shirt-sleeves,  smoking  a 
long  clay  over  the  garden  gate  as  the  postman  went  by  with 
the  letters. 

"She'll  write,"  he  told  himself.  "When  she's  mending  a 
bit  she'll  aise  our  mind  and  write.  '  Dear  ould  Pete,  excuse 
me  for  not  writing  afore  '—that'll  be  the  way  of  it.  Aw,  trust 
her,  trust  her." 

But  day  followed  day,  and  no  letter  came  from  Kate.  Ten 
evenings  running  he  smoked  over  the  gate,  leisurely,  largely, 
almost  languidly,  but  always  watching  for  the  peak  of  the 
postman's  cap  as  it  turned  the  corner  by  the  Court-house,  and 
following  the  toes  of  his  foot  as  they  stepped  off  the  curb,  to 
see  if  they  pointed  in  his  direction — and  then  turning  aside 
vrith  a  deep  breath  and  a  smothered  moan  that  ended  in  a 
rattle  of  the  throat  and  a  pretence  at  spitting. 

The  postman  saw  him  as  he  went  by,  and  his  little  eyes 
twinkled  treacherously. 

"  Nothing  for  you  yet,  Capt'n,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Chut '"  said  Pete,  with  a  mighty  puff  of  smoke  ;  "my 
business  isn't  done  by  correspondence,  Mr.  Kelly." 

"  Aw,  no  ;   but  when  a  man's  wife's  away "  began  the 

postman. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Pete,  with  a  look  of  intelligence,  and  then, 
with  a  lofty  wave  of  the  hand,  "  She's  like  her  husband,  Mr. 
Kelly — not  bothering  much  with  letters  at  all." 

"You'll  be  longing  for  a  line,  though,  Capt'n— that's  only 
natural." 

"No  news  is  good  news — I  can  lave  it  with  her." 

"  Of  coorse.  that's  truth  enough,  yes  !  But  still  and  for  all, 
a  taste  of  a  letter— it's  doing  no  harm,  Capt'n— aisy  writ,  too, 
and  sweet  to  get  sometimes,  you  know — shows  a  woman  isn't 
forgetting  a  man  when  she's  away." 


MAN   AND   MAX.  343 

"Mr.  Kelly  !  :Mr.  Kolly  !"  said  Pete,  witli  his  hand  ]>vU)vo 
his  face,  pahn  outwards. 

"Not  ueccssary  ?  Well,  I  hive  it  with  you.  Good-nij^ht, 
Capfn." 

"  Good-night  to  you,  sir/'  said  Pete. 

He  had  laughed  and  tut-tutted,  and  lifted  his  eyehrows  and 
his  hands  in  mock  protest  and  a  pretence  of  indilfercncc.  but 
the  postman's  talk  had  cut  him  to  the  quick.  "  People  are 
suspecting,"  he  thought.     "They're  saying  tilings." 

This  made  him  swear,  but  a  thought  came  ])ehind  that 
made  him  sweat  instead.  "Philip  will  be  hearing  them. 
They'll  be  telling  him  she  doesn't  write  to  me  ;  that  I  don't 
know  where  she  is  ;  that  she  has  left  me,  and  that  she's  a  bad 
woman." 

To  make  Kate  stand  well  with  Philip  was  an  aim  that  had 
no  rival  but  one  in  Pete's  reckoning— to  make  Philip  st;md 
well  with  Kate.  Out  of  the  shadow-land  of  his  memory  of 
the  awful  night  of  his  bereavement,  a  recollection,  which  had 
been  lying  dead  until  then,  came  back  now  in  its  grave-clothes 
to  torture  him.  It  was  what  Cifisar  had  said  of  Philip's  fight 
with  Ross  Christian.  Philip  himself  had  never  mentioned  it 
— that  was  like  him.  But  when  evil  tongues  told  of  Ross  and 
hinted  at  mischief,  Philip  would  know  .something  already  ; 
he  would  be  prepared,  perhaps  he  would  listen  and  believe. 

Two  days  longer  Pete  sat  in  the  agony  of  this  new  terror 
and  the  dogged  impatience  of  his  old  hope.  "  She'll  write. 
She'll  not  lave  me  much  longer."  But  she  did  not  write,  and 
on  the  second  night,  before  returning  to  the  house  from  the 
gate,  he  had  made  his  plan.  He  must  silence  scandal  at  all 
hazards.  However  his  own  heart  might  bleed  with  doubts 
and  fears  and  misgivings,  Philip  must  never  cease  to  think 
that  Kate  was  good  and  sweet  and  true. 

"  Off  to  bed,  Nancy,"  he  cried,  heaving  into  the  hall  like  a 
man  in  drink.  "  Pve  work  to  do  to-night,  and  want  the  house 
to  myself." 

"Goodness  me,  is  it  yourself  that's  talking  of  bed,  then  ?" 
said  Nancy.  "  Seven  in  the  everin',  too,  and  the  child  not  an 
hour  out  of  my  hands  ?  And  dear  knows  what  work  it  is  if 
you  can't  be  doing  it  with  good  people  about  you." 

"  Come,  getoff,  woman  ;  you're  looking  tired  mortal.  The 
lil  one's  ragging  you  ter'ble.     But  what's  it  saying,  Nancy — 


3i4  THE  MANXMAN. 

bed  is  half  bread.  Truth  enough,  too,  and  the  other  half  is 
beauty.  Get  off,  now.  You're  spoiling-  your  complexion 
di*eadful — I'll  never  be  getting  that  husband  for  you." 

Thus  coaxing  her,  cajoling  her,  watching  her,  dodging  her, 
nagging  her.  di'iving  her,  he  got  her  off  to  bed  at  last.  Being 
alone,  he  looked  around,  listened,  shut  the  doors  of  the  par- 
lour and  the  kitchen,  put  the  bolt  on  the  door  of  the  stairs, 
the  chain  on  the  door  of  the  porch,  took  off  his  boots,  and 
went  about  on  tiptoe.  Then  he  blew  out  the  lamp,  filled  and 
trimmed  and  relit  it,  going  down  on  the  hearthrug  to  catch 
the  light  of  the  fii'e.  After  that  he  settled  the  table,  drew  up 
the  armchair,  took  from  a  corner  cupboard  pens  and  ink,  a 
blotting  pad,  a  packet  of  notepaper  and  enveloj^es,  a  stick  of 
sealing  wax,  a  box  of  matches,  a  postage  stamp,  the  dictionary, 
and  the  exercise-book  in  which  Kate  had  taught  him  to  write. 

As  the  clock  was  striking  nine,  Pete  was  squaring  himself 
at  the  table,  pen  in  hand,  and  his  tongue  in  his  left  cheek. 
Half  an  hour  later  he  was  startled,  by  an  interrui^tion. 

"  Who's  there? "  he  shouted  in  a  ferocious  voice,  leaping  up 
with  a  look  of  terror,  like  a  man  caught  in  a  crime.  It  was 
only  Nancy,  who  had  come  creeping  down  the  stairs  under 
pretence  of  having  forgotten  the  baby's  bottle.  He  made  a 
sort  of  apologetic  growl,  handed  the  flat  bottle  through  an 
opening  like  a  crack,  and  ordered  her  back  to  bed. 

"  Goodness  sakes ! "  said  Nancy,  going  upstairs.  "  Is  it 
coining  money  the  man  is  ?  Or  is  it  whisky  itself  that's  doing 
on  him  ? " 

Two  houi-s  afterwards  Pete  fancied  he  saw  a  face  at  the 
window,  and  he  caught  up  a  stick,  unchained  the  door,  and 
rushed  into  the  garden.  It  was  no  one;  the  town  lay  asleep; 
the  night  was  all  but  airless;  only  the  faintest  breeze  moved 
the  leaves  of  the  trees;  there  was  no  noise  anywhere,  except 
the  measured  beat  of  the  sea  in  its  everlasting  coming  and 
going  on  the  shore. 

Stepping  back  into  the  house,  where  the  fire  chirped  and 
the  kettle  sang  and  all  else  was  quiet,  he  resumed  his  task, 
and  somewhere  in  the  dark  houi"s  before  the  dawn  he  finished 
it.  The  fingers  of  his  right  hand  were  then  inky  up  to  the 
first  joint,  his  collar  was  open,  his  neck  was  bare,  his  eyes 
were  ablaze,  the  cords  on  his  face  were  big  and  blue,  great 
beads  of  cold  sweat  were  standing  on  his  forehead,  and  the 


MAN    AND    MAN.  345 

carpet  around  bis  cliair  was  littered  as  white  as  if  a  siiow- 
storiii  had  fallen  on  it. 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  and  "gathered  up  these  rem- 
nants and  burnt  them,  with  tlur  air  of  a  man  destroying  the 
evidences  of  his  <J:uilt.  Then  he  j)ut  biick  the  ink  and  the  dic- 
tionary, the  blottinjj  pad  and  sealing  wax,  and  replaced  them 
with  a  loaf  of  bi*ead,  a  table  knife,  a  bottle  of  brand}',  and  a 
drinking  glass.  After  that  he  matle  up  the  fire  with  a  shovel 
of  slack,  that  it  might  burn  until  morning;  removed  the  lamp 
from  the  table  to  the  window  recess  that  it  might  cast  its 
light  into  the  darkness  outside;  and  uncliained  tlie  outer  door 
that  a  wanderer  of  the  night,  if  any  such  there  were,  might 
enter  without  knocking. 

He  did  all  this  in  the  absent  manner  of  a  man  who  did  it 
nightly.  Then  unbolting  the  staircase  door,  and  listening  a 
moment  for  the  breathing  of  the  sleepers  overhead,  he  crept 
into  the  dark  parlour  overlooking  the  road,  and  lay  down  on 
the  sofa  to  sleep. 

It  was  done  I  Pete's  great  scheme  was  afoot!  The  mighty 
secret  which  he  had  enshrouded  with  such  awful  mystery  lay 
in  an  envelope  in  the  inside  breast-pocket  of  his  monkey- 
jacket,  signed,  sealed,  stamped,  and  addressed. 

Pete  had  written  a  letter  to  himself. 


m. 

Next  day  the  crier  was  crying:  "Great  meeting — Manx 
fishermen— on  Zigzag  at  Peel  when  boats  come  in  to-morrow 
morning — protest  agen  harbour  taxes." 

"The  thing  itself,"  thouglit  Pete,  witli  his  hand  pressed 
hard  on  the  outside  of  his  breast-pocket.  At  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  he  went  down  to  the  harbour,  where  his  Niekey 
lay  by  the  quay,  shouted  to  the  master,  "  Take  an  odd  man  to- 
night, Mr.  Kemi.sh  V  then  dropped  to  the  deck  and  helped  to 
fetch  the  l)oat  into  the  bay. 

They  had  to  haul  her  out  by  poles  alone  the  quay  wall,  for 
the  tide  was  low,  and  there  was  no  ])reak water.  It  was  still 
early  in  tlie  herring  season,  but  the  fishing  was  in  full  swing. 
Five  hundred  boats  from  all  parts  were  making  for  the  fish- 
ing round.    It  lay  off  the  south-west  tail  of  the  island.    Before 


3^6  'I'HE  MANXMAN. 

Pete's  boat  reached  it  the  fleet  were  sitting  together,  like  a 
flight  of  sea-fowl,  and  the  sun  was  almost  gone. 

The  sun  went  down  that  night  over  the  hills  of  Mourne  very 
angry  and  red  in  its  setting;  the  sky  to  the  north-west  was 
dark  and  sullen;  the  round  line  of  the  sea  was  bleared  and 
broken,  but  there  was  little  wind,  and  the  water  vras  quiet. 

"  Bring  to  and  shoot,"  cried  Pete,  and  they  dropped  sail  to 
the  landward  of  the  fleet,  off  the  shoulder  of  the  Calf  Island, 
with  its  two  lights  making  one.  The  boat  was  brought  head 
to  the  wind,  with  the  flowing  tide  veering  against  her;  the 
nets  were  shot  over  the  starboard  quarter,  and  they  dropped 
astern ;  the  bow  was  swung  round  to  the  line  of  the  floating 
mollags,  and  boat  and  nets  began  to  drift  together. 

Supper  was  served,  the  pump  was  worked,  the  lights  were 
run  up,  the  small  boat  was  sent  round  with  a  flare  to  fright 
away  the  evil  spirits,  and  then  the  night  came  down — a  dark 
night,  without  moon  or  stars,  shutting  out  the  island,  though 
it  stood  so  near,  and  even  the  rocks  of  the  Hen  and  Chicken. 
The  first  man  for  the  look-out  took  up  his  one  hour's  watch  at 
the  helm,  and  the  rest  went  below. 

Pete's  bunk  was  under  the  binnacle,  and  the  light  of  its 
lamp  fell  on  a  stamped  envelope  which  he  took  out  of  his 
breast-pocket  from  time  to  time  that  he  might  read  the  inscrip- 
tion.    It  ran — 

Capn  Peatr  Quilliam, 

Lm  Cottig  Ramsey  I  0  Man. 

He  looked  at  it  lovingly,  fondly,  yearningly,  yet  with  a 
certain  awe,  too,  as  if  it  were  the  casket  of  some  hidden  treas- 
ure, and  he  hardly  knew  what  it  contained.  The  dim-lit  cabin 
was  quiet,  the  net  boiler  sparched  drops  of  hot  water  at  inter- 
vals, the  fire  of  the  cooking  stove  slid  and  fell,  the  men 
breathed  heavily  from  unseen  beds,  and  the  sea  washed  as  the 
boat  rolled. 

''  What's  she  saying,  I  wonder  !  I  wonder  !  God  bless 
her  ! "  he  mumbled,  and  then  he,  too,  fell  asleep. 

Two  hours  before  hauling,  they  proved  the  fishing  by  tak- 
ing in  a  "  pair  "  of  the  net,  found  good  herring,  and  blew  the 
horn  as  signal  that  they  were  doing  well.  Then  out  of  the 
black  depths  around,  wherein  no  boat  could  be  seen,  the 
lights  of  other  boats  came  floating  silently  astern,  until  the 


MAN   AND  MAN.  347 

company  about  tliom  in  tlio  darkness  was  like  a  little  city  of 
the  sea  and  tlie  nip^lit. 

At  the  fii'st  ])oep  of  inoniinfif  over  tlie  round  sliouldcr  of 
the  Calf,  the  little  city  awoke.  There  were  the  clicks  of  the 
capstan,  and  the  shouts  of  the  men  as  the  nets  came  back  to 
the  boats,  heavy  and  white  with  fish.  All  being  aboard,  the 
men  went  down  on  the  deck,  according  to  their  wont,  every 
man  on  his  knee  with  his  face  in  his  cap,  and  then  leapt  up 
with  a  shout  (perliaps  an  oath),  swung  to  the  wind,  hoisted 
the  square  sails,  and  made  for  home.  The  dark  nortliwest 
Wiis  lowering  by  this  time,  and  the  sea  was  beginning  to  jump. 

"  Breakfast,  boys,"  sang  out  Pete,  with  his  head  above  the 
companion,  and  all  but  the  helmsman  went  below.  There 
was  a  pot  full  of  the  drop-fish,  and  evcj-y  man  ate  his  warp  of 
herring.  It  had  been  a  great  niglifs  lishing.  Some  of  the 
boats  were  full  to  the  mouth,  and  all  had  plenty. 

'•We'll  do  middling  if  we  get  a  market,"'  said  Pete. 

''  We've  got  to  get  home  first,"  said  the  master,  and  at  the 
same  moment  a  sea  struck  the  windward  quarter  with  the 
force  of  a  sledge-hammer,  and  the  block  at  the  masthead  be- 
gan to  sing. 

''  We'll  run  for  Peel  this  morning,  boys,"  said  Pete,  smoth- 
ering his  voice  in  a  mouthful. 

"Peel  ?"  said  the  master,  shooting  out  his  lip.  "They've 
got  no  harbour  there  at  all  with  a  cat's  paw  of  a  breeze,  let 
alone  a  northwester." 

"  I'm  for  going  up  to  the  meeting,"  said  Pete  in  an  inco- 
herent way. 

Then  they  tacked  before  the  rising  gale,  and  went  off  with 
the  fleet  as  it  swirled  like  a  flight  of  gulls  abreast  of  the  wind. 
The  sea  came  tumbling  down  like  a  shoal  of  seahogs,  and 
washed  the  faces  of  the  men  as  they  sat  in  oilskins  on  the 
hatch-head,  shaking  the  herring  out  of  the  nets  into  the  hold. 

But  their  work  only  began  when  they  came  into  Peel. 
The  tide  was  down  ;  there  was  no  breakwater  ;  the  ne<"k  of 
the  harbour  was  narrow,  and  four  hundred  l>oats  were  coming 
to  take  shelter  and  to  land  their  cargoes.  It  was  a  scene 
of  tumult  and  confusion — shouting,  swearing,  and  fighting 
among  the  men,  and  crushing  and  cranching  among  the  boats 
as  they  nosed  their  way  to  the  harbour  mouth,  threw  ropes  on 
to  the  quay,  wiiere  fifty  ropes  were  round  one  post  already,  or 
23 


348  THE  MANXMAN. 

cast  anchors  up  the  bank  of  the  castle  rock,  which  was  steep 
and  dangerous  to  lie  on. 

Pete  got  landed  somehow,  but  his  Nickey  with  half  the 
fleet  turned  tail  and  went  round  the  island.  As  he  leapt 
ashore,  the  helpless  harboar-master,  who  had  been  bellowing 
over  the  babel  through  a  cracked  trumpet,  turned  to  hiia  and 
said,  "  For  the  Lord's  sake,  Capt'n  Quilliam,  if  you've  got  a 
friend  that  can  lend  us  a  hand,  go  off  to  the  meeting  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"  I  mane  to,"  said  Pete,  but  he  had  something  else  to  do 
fii'st.  It  was  the  task  that  had  brought  him  to  Peel,  and  no 
eye  must  see  him  do  it.  Slowly  and  slyly,  like  one  who  does 
a  doubtful  thing  and  pretends  to  be  doing  nothing,  he  went 
stealing  through  the  town — behind  the  old  Court-house  and 
up  Castle  Street,  into  the  market-place,  and  across  it  to  the 
line  of  shops  which  make  the  principal  thoroughfare. 

At  one  of  these  shops,  a  little  single-roomed  place,  with 
its  small  shutter  still  up,  but  the  door  half  open  and  a  noise  of 
stamping  going  on  inside,  he  stopped  in  a  lounging  way,  half 
twisting  on  his  heel  as  if  idly  looking  back.  It  was  the  Post- 
Office. 

With  a  stealthy  look  around,  he  put  a  trembling  hand  into 
his  breast-pocket,  drew  out  the  letter,  screened  it  by  the  flat  of 
his  big  palm,  and  posted  it.  Then  he  turned  hurriedly  away, 
and  was  gone  in  a  moment,  like  a  man  who  feared  pursuit, 
down  a  steep  and  tortuous  alley  that  led  to  the  shore.  The 
morning  was  early  ;  the  shops  were  not  yet  open  ;  only  the 
homes  of  the  flshermen  were  putting  out  curling  wreaths  of 
smoke  ;  the  silent  streets  echoed  to  his  lightest  footstep. 

But  the  shore  road  was  busy  enough.  Fishermen  in  sea- 
boots  and  sou' westers,  with  oilskin  over  one  arm  and  a  string 
of  herring  in  the  other  hand,  were  trooping  from  the  harbour 
up  to  the  Zigzag  by  the  rock  called  the  Creg  Mai  in.  It  was 
at  the  end  of  the  bay,  where  cliff  and  beach  and  sea  together 
form  a  bag  like  the  cod-end  of  the  trawl  net. 

"It's  not  the  fishermen  at  all— it's  the  farmers  they're 
thinking  of,"  said  one. 

"  You're  right,"  said  Pete,  "  and  it's  some  of  ourselves  that's 
to  blame  for  it." 

"  How's  that  ? "  said  somebody. 

"Aisy  enough,"  said   Pete.     "When  I  came  home  from 


MAN    AND    MAN.  349 

Kiinborly  I  met  an  oulil  lisluTinaii — yoii  know  tlic  man,  I'illy 
—  well,  i/ou  do,  Dan — Pliil  Nelly,  of  liiunsey.  'How's  the 
tishing,  Phil  T  says  I.  He  j,Mve  me  a  Hm!  and  a  lieise  of  his 
neck,  and  'I'm  not  fishing  no  more,'  says  he.  'The  wife's 
keeping"  a  private  hotel.'  says  lie.  '  And  what  arc  you  doing 
yourself  V  si\\s  I.  'I'm  walking  about,'  says  he,  and,  gough 
bless  me,  if  the  man  wasn't  wearing  a  collar  and  carrying  a 
stick,  and  prating  about  advertising  the  island,  if  you  plaze.'* 

At  the  sound  of  Pete's  voice  a  group  of  the  men  gathered 
about  him.  "That's  not  the  worst  neither,'' said  he.  ''The 
other  day  I  tumbled  over  Tom  Hommy — you  know  Tom 
Hommy,  yes,  you  do,  the  HI  deaf  man  up  Ballure.  He  was 
lying  in  the  hedge  by  the  public-house,  three  sheets  in  the 
wind.  'Why  aren't  you  out  with  the  boats,  Tom?'  Siiys  I. 
'Wash  for  should  I  go  owsh  wish  the  boash,  when  the  childer 
can  earn  more  on  the  roads  ? '  says  the  drunken  wastrel.  'And 
is  yonder  your  boys  and  girls  tossing  summci'saults  at  the  tidl 
of  the  trippers'  car  ? '  says  I.  *  Yesh,'  says  he ;  '  and  they'll  earn 
more  in  a  day  at  their  capcrings  than  their  father  in  a  week  at 
the  herrings.'" 

"I  believe  it  enough,"  said  one.  "The  man's  about  right," 
said  another;  and  a  querulous  voice  behind  said,  "  Wonderful 
the  prosperity  of  the  island  since  the  visitoi*s  came  to  it." 

"Get  out  with  you,  there,  for  a  disgrace  to  the  name  of 
Manxman,"  sang  out  Pete  over  the  heads  of  those  that  stood  be- 
tween. "With  the  farming  going  to  the  dogs  and  the  fishing 
going  to  the  divil,  d'ye  know  what  the  ould  island's  coming  to  ? 
It's  coming  to  an  island  of  lodging-house  keepers  and  hackney- 
car  drivers.  Not  the  Isle  of  Man  at  all,  but  the  Islk  of  Man- 
chester." 

There  was  a  tremendous  shout  at  this  last  word.  In  an- 
other minute  Pete  was  lifted  shouldei*  high  over  the  crowd  on 
to  the  highest  turn  of  the  zigzag  path,  and  bidden  to  go  on. 
There  were  five  hundred  faces  below  him,  j)utting  out  hot 
breath  in  the  cool  morning  air.  The  sun  was  shooting  over 
the  clifi's  a  canopy  as  of  smoke  above  their  heads.  On  the  top 
of  the  crag  the  sea-fowl  were  jabbering,  and  the  whit<»  sea 
itself  was  climbing  on  the  beach. 

"Men,"  said  Pete,  "there's  not  nmch  to  say.  This  morn- 
ing's work  said  everything.  We'd  a  right  fishing  last  night, 
hadn't  we  ?    Four  hundred  boats  came  up  to  Peel,  and  we 


350  THE  MANXMAN. 

hadn't  less  than  ten  maise  apiece.  That's — you  that's  smart 
at  your  figguring  and  ciphering,  spake  out  now — that's  four 
thousand  maise  isn't  it  ? "  (Shouts  of  "  Right.")  "  Aw,  you're 
quick  wonderful.  No  houlding  you  at  all  when  it's  money 
that's  in.  Four  thousand  maise  ready  and  waiting  for  the 
steamers  to  England — but  did  we  land  it  ?  No,  nor  half  of  it 
neither.  The  other  half's  gone  round  to  other  ports,  too  late 
for  the  day's  sailing,  and  half  of  that  half  will  be  going  rotten 
and  getting  chucked  back  into  the  sea.  That's  what  the  Manx 
fishermen  have  lost  this  morning  because  they  haven't  har- 
bours to  shelter  them,  and  yet  they're  talking  of  levying  har- 
bour dues." 

"  Man  veen,  he's  a  boy  !  "— "  He's  aU  that."—"  Go  it,  Capt'n. 
What  are  we  to  do  ? " 

"  Do  ?  "  cried  Pete.  ''  I'll  tell  you  what  you're  to  do.  This 
is  Friday.  Next  Thursday  is  old  Midsummer  Day.  That's 
Tynwald  Coort  day.  Come  to  St.  John's  on  Thursday — every 
man  of  you  come — come  in  your  sea-boots  and  your  jerseys — 
let  the  Governor  see  you  mane  it.  '  Give  us  raisonable  hope 
of  harbour  improvement  and  we'll  pay,'  says  you.  '  If  you 
don't,  we  won't;  and  if  you  try  to  make  us,  we're  two  thousand 
strong,  and  we'll  rise  like  one  man.'  Don't  be  freckened; 
you've  a  right  to  be  bould  in  a  good  cause.  I'll  get  somebody 
to  spake  for  you.  You  know  the  man  I  mane.  He's  stood 
the  fisherman's  friend  before  to-day,  and  he  isn't  going  taking 
off  his  cap  to  the  best  man  that's  setting  foot  on  Tynwald 
Hill." 

It  was  agreed.  Between  that  day  and  Tynwald  day  Pete 
was  to  enlist  the  sympathy  of  Philip,  and  to  go  to  Port  St. 
Mary  to  get  the  co-operation  of  the  south-side  fishermen.  The 
town  was  astir  by  this  time,  the  sun  was  on  the  beach,  and  the 
fishermen  trooped  off  to  bed. 


IV. 

Pete  was  back  in  his  ship's  cabin  in  the  garden  the  same 
evening  with  a  heart  the  heavier  because  for  one  short  hour  it 
had  forgotten  its  trouble.  The  flowers  were  opening,  the  roses 
were  creeping  over  the  porch,  the  blackbird  was  singing  at  the 
top  of  the  tree;  but  his  own  flower  of  flowers,  his  rose  of  roses, 


MAX   AND   .MAN.  35 1 

his  bird  of  binls — \vlier(>  was  slio  ?  Suinincr  was  comiii;:,  com- 
ing!:, comiiifT — comin«r  with  its  lij^lit,  coniin;,'-  with  its  music, 
comiiip:  with  its  sweetness— but  she  came  not. 

The  ck)ck  struck  seven  inside  the  house,  and  Pete,  i)iiH'  in 
hand,  swung:  over  to  the  prate.  No  need  to-ni^Hit  to  watcli  for 
tlie  postman's  i)eak,  no  need  to  trace  his  toes. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  Mr.  Quilliam." 

Hearing  these  words,  Pete,  his  eyes  lialf  shut  as  if  dosinj; 
in  tlie  sunset,  wakened  himself  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  What  ?  For  me,  is  it  ?  A  letter,  you  say  ?  Aw,  I  see," 
taking-  it  and  turninfr  it  in  his  hand,  "just  a  line  from  the  mis- 
tress, it's  like.  Well,  well  !  A  lettei-  for  me,  if  you  plaze," 
and  he  lau^rhed  like  a  man  much  tickled. 

He  was  in  no  hurry.  He  rammed  his  dead  pipe  with  his 
finger,  lit  it  again,  sucked  it,  made  it  quack,  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  then  said  quietly,  "  Let's  see  what's  her  news  at  all." 

He  opened  the  letter  leisurely,  and  read  bits  of  it  aloud,  as 
if  reading  to  himself,  but  holding  the  postman  while  he  did  so 
in  idle  talk  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate.  "And  how  are  you 
living  to-day,  Mr.  Kelly  ?  Aw,  h\n— getting  that  intich  better 
ifs  extraordinary — Yes,  a  nice  everin',  very,  Mr.  Kelly,  nice, 
nice— that  happy  and  comfortable  and  Uncle  Joe  is  that 
good — heavy  bag  at  you  to-night,  you  say  ?  Aw,  heavj',  yes, 
heavy — love  to  Grannie  and  all  inquiring  /rj'ewc/s— nothing, 
Mr.  Kelly,  nothing— just  a  scribe  of  a  line,  thinking  a  man 
might  be  getting  unaisy.  She  needn't,  though— she  needn't. 
But  chut  1  It's  nothing.  Writing  a  letter  is  nothing  to  her 
at  all.  Why,  she'd  be  knocking  that  off,  bless  you,"  holding 
out  a  half  sheet  of  paper,  ''  in  less  tban  an  hour  and  a  half. 
Truth  enough,  sir."  Then,  looking  at  the  letter  again, 
"  What's  this,  though  ?  P.N.  They're  always  putting  a  P.N. 
at  the  bottom  of  a  letter,  Mr.  Kelly.  P.N. — /  vas  expecting 
to  be  home  before,  but  I  would n^t  get  away  for  Uncle  Joe 
taking  me  to  the  theaytres.  Ha.  ha.  ha  I  A  mighty  boy  is 
Uncle  Joe.  But.  Mr.  Kelly,  Mr.  Kelly."  witli  a  solemn  look, 
"  not  a  word  of  this  to  Ciesar  ?  " 

The  postman  had  been  watching  Pete  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  ferret  eyes.  "  Do  you  know,  Cai)t'n,  what  Black  Tom  is 
saying  ? " 

"What's  that  ?"  said  Pete,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone. 

"He's  saying  there  is  no  Uncle  Joe." 


352  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  No  Uncle  Joe  ? "  cried  Pete,  lifting  voice  and  eyebrows 
together. 

The  postman  signified  assent  with  a  nod  of  his  peak. 

"  Well,  that's  rich,"  said  Pete,  in  a  low  breath,  raising  his 
face  as  if  to  invoke  the  astonishment  of  the  sky  itself.  "  No 
Uncle  Joe  ? "  he  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  blank  incredulity. 
"Ask  the  man  if  it's  in  bed  he  is.  Why,"  and  Pete's  eyes 
opened  and  closed  like  a  doll's,  "  he'll  be  saying  there's  no 
Auntie  Joney  next. " 

The  postman  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Never  heard  of  Auntie  Joney— Uncle  Joe's  wife  ?  No  ? 
Well,  really,  really — is  it  sleeping  I  am  ?  Not  Auntie  Joney, 
the  Primitive?  Aw,  a  good  ould  woman  as  ever  lived.  A 
saint,  if  ever  the  like  was  in,  and  died  a  triumphant  death,  too. 
No  theaytres  for  her,  though.  She  won't  bemane  herself. 
No,  but  she's  going  to  chapel  reg'lar,  and  getting  up  in  the 
middle  of  every  night  of  life  to  say  her  prayers.  'Deed  she  is. 
So  Black  Tom  says  there  is  no  Uncle  Joe  ? " 

Pete  gave  a  long  whistle,  then  stopped  it  sudden  with  his 
mouth  agape,  and  said  from  his  throat,  "/see." 

He  put  his  mouth  close  to  the  postman's  ear  and  whispered, 
"Ever  hear  Black  Tom  talk  of  the  fortune  he's  expecting 
through  the  Coort  of  Chancery  ? "  The  postman's  peak 
bobbed  downwards.  "You  have  ?  Tom's  thinking  to  grab  it 
all  for  himself.     Ha,  ha  !     That's  it  !     Ha,  ha  ! " 

The  postman  went  off  blinking  and  giggling,  and  Pete 
reeled  up  the  path,  biting  his  lip,  and  muttering,  "Keep  it  up, 
Pete,  keep  it  up — it's  ploughing  a  hard  furrow,  though."  Then 
aloud,  "A  letter  from  the  mistress,  Nancy.'' 

Nancy  met  him  in  the  porch,  clearing  her  fingers,  thick 
with  dough. 

"  There  you  are,"  said  Pete,  flapping  the  letter  on  one  hand, 

"  Good  sakes  alive  ! "  said  Nancy.  "  Did  it  come  by  the 
post,  though,  Pete  ? " 

"Look  at  the  stamp,  woman,  and  see  for  yourself,"  said 
Pete. 

"  My  goodness  me  !     From  Kirry,  you  say  ? " 

"Let  me  in,  then,  and  I'll  be  reading  you  bits." 

Nancy  went  back  to  her  kneading  with  looks  of  bewilder- 
ment, and  Pete  follow^ed  her,  opening  the  letter. 

"  She's  well  enough,  Nancy — no  need  to  read  that  part  at 


MAX    AM)    MAN.  ,'^53 

all.  But  sec/'  riinnin;,''  his  forcfin/j^cr  aloiif^  tlu^  writing'- 
^' '  Kisses  for  the  Ixthi/,  <ni(l  lore  to  Ndiicy,  and  tell  (Jranniii 
not  to  be  frottimj,'  et  setU^ivr,  et  setterer.     Se(^  ?" 

Nancy  looked  up  at  her  thumping  and  lliuii^nn;^-,  and  said, 
''  Did  Mr.  Kelly  give  it  you  ? " 

''  He  did  that,"  said  Pete,  ''  this  minute  at  the  f^ate.  It's  his 
time,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Nancy  p^lanced  at  the  clock.  "  I  suppose  it  must  Ixi  right," 
she  said. 

"  Take  it  in  your  hand,  Avoman,"  said  Pete. 

Nancy  cleaned  her  hands  and  took  the  letter,  turned  it  over 
and  felt  it  in  her  fingers  as  if  it  had  been  linen.  "  And  this  is 
from  Kirry,  is  it  ?  It's  nice,  too.  I  haven't  much  schooling, 
Pete,  but  I'm  asking  no  better  than  a  letter  my.self.  It's  like 
a  i)eppermint  in  your  frock  on  Sunday — if  you're  low  you're 
always  knowing  it's  there,  anyway."  She  looked  at  it  again, 
and  then  she  said,  like  one  who  says  a  strange  thing,  ''  I  once 
had  a  letter  myself — 'deed  I  had,  Pete.  It  was  from  father. 
He  went  down  in  the  Black  Sloop^  trading  oranges  with  the 
blacks  in  their  own  island  somewhere.  They  put  into  the 
port  of  London  one  day  when  they  were  having  a  funeral 
there.  What's  this  one  they  were  calling  after  the  big  Ixwts 
— Wellingtons,  that's  the  man.  They  were  writing  home  all 
about  it — the  people,  and  the  chariots,  and  the  lighting  horses, 
and  the  music  in  the  streets  and  the  Cateedrals — and  we  were 
never  hearing  another  word  from  them  again-  never.  'To 
Miss  Annie  Cain — your  affecshunet  father,  Joe  Cain.'  I  knew 
it  all  off — ev^ery  word — and  I  kept  it  ten  yeai's  in  my  l>ox 
under  the  lavender." 

Philip  came  later.  He  was  looking  haggard  and  tired;  his 
face  was  pallid  and  drawn  ;  his  eyes  were  red,  quick,  and 
wandering  ;  his  hair  was  neglected  and  ragged  ;  his  step  was 
wavering  and  uncertain. 

"  Gough  alive,  man,"  crird  P('t«>,  "didn't  you  take  oatli  t<» 
do  justice  between  man  and  man  {  " 

Philip  looked  up  with  alarm.     "Well  :■  "  he  said. 

"Well,"  cried  Pete,  with  a  frown  and  a  clenched  list, 
"  there's  one  man  you're  not  doing  justice  to." 

*'  Who's  that  ?  "  Baid  Philip  with  eyes  down. 

"Yourself,"  .said  Pete,  and  Philip  drew  a  long  breath. 
Pete  laughed,  protested  that  Philip  must  not  work  so  hartl, 


354:  THE  MANXMAN. 

and  then  plunged  into  an  account  of  the  morning's 
meeting. 

"Tremenjous  I  Talk  of  enthusiasm  !  Man  veen,  man 
veen  I  Didn't  I  say  we'd  rise  as  one  man  ?  We  will,  too. 
We're  going  up  to  Tynwald  Coort  on  Tynwald  day,  two  thou- 
sand strong.  Tynwald  Coort  ?  Yes,  and  why  not  ?  Drum 
and  fife  bands,  bless  you — two  of  them.  Not  much  music, 
maybe,  but  there'll  be  noise  enough.  It's  all  settled.  South" 
side  fishermen  are  coming  up  Foxal  way  ;  north-side  men 
going  down  by  Peel.  Meeting  under  Harry  Delany's  tree, 
and  going  up  to  the  hill  on  mass  (en  masse).  No  bawling, 
though — no  singing  out — no  disturbing  the  Coort  at  all." 

"  W-ell.  well  !     What  then  ?  "  said  Philip. 

''  Then  we're  wanting  you  to  spake  for  us,  Dempster.  Aw, 
nothing  much — nothing  to  rag  you  at  all.  Just  tell  them  flat 
we  won't — that'll  do." 

"  It's  a  serious  matter,  Pete.     I  must  think  it  over." 

"  Aw,  think  and  think  enough,  Dempster — but  mind  you 
do  it,  though.  The  boys  are  counting  on  you.  '  He's  our 
anchor  and  he'll  hould,'  they're  saying.  But,  bother  the  har- 
bours, anyway,''  reaching  his  hand  for  something  on  the  man- 
telpiece.    "What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Philip,  with  a  long  breath  of  weariness  and 
relief. 

"  Guess,  then,"  said  Pete,  putting  his  hand  behind  him. 

Philip  shook  his  head  and  smiled  feebly.  Then,  with  the 
expression  of  a  boy  on  his  birthday,  Pete  leaned  over  Philip, 
and  said  in  a  half-whisper  across  the  top  of  his  head,  "  I've 
heard  from  Kate." 

Philip  turned  ghastly,  his  lip  trembled,  and  he  stammered, 
"You've — you've — heard  from  Kate,  have  you  ?  " 

'"  Look  at  that,"  cried  Pete,  and  round  came  the  letter  with 
a  triumphant  sweep. 

Philip's  respiration  grew  difficult  and  noisy.  Slowly,  very 
slowly,  he  reached  out  his  hand,  took  the  letter,  and  looked  at 
its  superscription. 

"  Read  it — read  it,"  said  Pete  ;  "  no  secrets  at  all." 

With  head  down  and  ej^ebrows  hiding  his  eyes,  with 
trembling  hands  that  tore  the  envelope,  Philip  took  out  the 
letter  and  read  it  in  passages— broken,  blurred,  smudged,  as  by 
the  smoke  of  a  fo'c'stle  lamp. 


MAN    AND   MAN.  ;>55 

"  Deerest  peat  i  ani  gelt  in  that  imich  bt-ltiT  .  .  .  i  am  that  liappv 
and  comforbel  .  .  .  soineliinc!;  i  am  longing  for  u  .si^ht  of  the  lil  ones 
swate  face  ...  no  more  at  present  .  .  .  ure  own  trew  wife." 

• 

"Come  to  the  P.  N.  yet,  Philip  T'  said  Pete,  lie  was  on 
his  knees  before  the  lire,  li^ditiii;^  liis  pipe  with  a  wd  eoal. 

*'  axpectin  to  be  home  sune  but  .  .  .  give  my  hiv  and  bcss  respects 
to  the  Dempster  when  u  see  him  he  was  so  good  to  me  when  u  were 
forren  the  half  was  never  towl  you  " 

"  She's  liot  hiving  a  man  iinaisy,  j'ou  see,"  said  Pete. 

Philip  could  not  speak.  His  throat  was  choking  ;  his 
tongue  tilled  his  mouth  ;  his  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears 
that  scorched  them.  Nancy,  who  had  been  up  to  Sulby  with 
news  of  the  letter,  came  in  at  the  moment,  and  Philip  raised 
his  head. 

"  I  told  my  aunt  not  to  expect  me  to-night,  Nancy.  Is  my 
room  upstaii^  ready  ?  " 

"  Aw,  yes,  always  ready,  your  honour,"  said  Nancy,  with  a 
curtsey. 

He  got  up,  with  head  aside,  took  a  candle  from  Nancy's 
hand,  excused  himself  to  Pete — he  was  tired,  sleepy,  had  a 
heavy  day  to-morrow — .said  *' Good-night,"  and  went  upstairs 
— stumbling  and  floundering — tore  open  his  bedroom  door, 
and  clashed  it  back  like  a  man  flying  from  an  enemy. 

Pete  thought  he  had  succeeded  to  admiraticm,  but  he 
looked  after  Philip,  and  was  not  at  ease.  He  had  no  misgiv- 
ings. Writing  was  writing  to  him,  and  it  was  nt)tliing  more. 
But  in  the  deep  midnight,  Philip,  who  had  not  slept,  heard  a 
thick  voice  that  was  like  a  sob  coming  from  somewhere  down- 
stairs. He  opened  his  door,  crept  out  on  to  the  stairhead,  and 
listened.  The  house  was  dark.  In  some  unseen  place  the 
voice  was  saying — 

"Lord,  forgive  me  for  deceaving  Philip.  I  couldn't  help 
it,  though;  Thou  knows.  Thyself,  I  couldn't.  A  lie's  a  dirty 
thing.  Lord.  It's  like  chewing  dough — it  sticks  in  your  throat 
and  chokes  you.  But  I  had  to  do  it  to  save  my  poor  lo.st 
lamb,  and  if  I  didn't  I  should  go  mad  myself— Thou 
knows  I  should.  So  forgive  me,  Lord,  for  Kirry's  sake. 
Amen." 

The  thick  voice  stopped,  the  house  lay  .still,  then  the  child 


356  THE  MANXMAN. 

awoke  in  a  room  beyond,  and  its  thin  cry  came  through  the 
darkness.     Philip  crept  back  in  terror. 

"  This  is   what  she  had   to  go  through  !     O   God  !     My 
Go^  ! " 


C^SAR  called  next  day  and  took  Pete  to  the  office  of  the 
High  Bailiff,  where  the  business  of  the  mortgage  was  com- 
pleted. The  deeds  of  Ballawhaine  w^ere  then  committed  to 
Caesar's  care  for  custody  and  safe  keeping,  and  he  carried  them 
off  to  his  safe  at  the  mill  with  a  long  stride  and  a  face  of  fierce 
triumph. 

"  The  ould  Ballawhaine  is  dying,"  he  thought ;  "  and  if  we 
kick  out  the  young  one  some  day,  it'll  only  be  the  Lord's  hand 
on  a  rascal." 

On  drawing  his  big  cheque,  Pete  had  realised  that,  with 
reckless  spending,  and  more  reckless  giving,  he  had  less  than 
a  hundred  pounds  to  his  credit.  *'No  matter,"  he  thought  ; 
"  Philip  will  pay  me  back  when  he  comes  in  to  his  otsti." 

Grannie  was  with  Nancy  at  Elm  Cottage  when  Pete  re- 
turned home.  The  child  was  having  its  morning  bath,  and 
the  two  women  were  on  their  knees  at  either  side  of  the  tub, 
cackling  and  crowing  like  two  old  hens  over  one  egg. 

"  Aw,  did  you  ever,  now,  Nancy  ?  'Deed,  no  ;  you  never 
did  see  such  a  lil  angel.     Up-a-daisy !  " 

''  Cry  I  must,  Grannie,  when  I  see  it  looking  so  beautiful. 
Warm  towels,  you  say?  Pm  a  girl  of  this  sort— when  I  get 
my  heart  down,  I  can  never  get  it  up  again.  Fuller's  earth,  is 
it?    Here,  then." 

"  Boo— loo— loo  !  the  bog  millish  !  Nancy,  we  must  be 
shortening  her  soon." 

And  with  that  they  fell  to  an  earnest  council  on  frocks  and 
petticoats,  and  other  mysteries  unread  by  man.  Pete  sat  and 
watched  and  listened.  ''  People  will  be  crying  shame  on  her 
if  they  see  the  Grannie  doing  everything,"  he  thought. 

That  night  he  lounged  through  the  town  and  examined  the 
shop  windows  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  He  was  trying  to 
bear  himself  like  a  workman  enjoying  his  Saturday  night's 
ramble  in  clean  clothes,  but  the  streets  were  thronged,  and  he 
found  himself  observed.    "  Not  here,"  he  told  himself.    ''  I  can 


.AIAN    AND    MAN.  357 

buy  nothinjT  here.  Doesn't  do  to  be  asleep  at  all,  and  a  man 
isn't  always  in  bed  when  he's  sleepin;::.'' 

Some  hours  later,  Naney  and  the  child  l)ein;,^  upstairs,  l*ete 
bethought  himself  of  something  that  was  kept  at  the  bottom  of 
a  drawer.  Going  to  the  drawer  to  open  it,  he  found  it  still"  to 
his  tugging,  and  it  came  back  with  a  jerk,  which  showed  it  had 
not  lately  been  disturbed.  Pete  found  what  he  looked  for,  and 
came  upon  something  beside.  It  was  a  cardboard  box.  tied 
about  with  a  string,  which  was  knotted  in  a  peculiar  way. 
"Kate's  knot,"  thought  Pete  with  a  sigh.  He  slipped  il,  and 
opened  the  lid  and  took  out  a  baby's  hood  of  scarlet  plush. 
''  The  verj'-  thing,"  he  thought.  He  held  it,  mouth  open,  over 
his  big  brown  hand,  and  laughed  with  delight.  "  She's  been 
buying  it  for  the  child  and  never  using  it."  His  eyes  glistened. 
"  The  very  thing."  he  thought,  and  then  he  took  down  pen  and 
paper  to  write  something  to  go  with  it. 

This  is  what  he  wrote — 

''For  lil  Kiiterin  from  her  Luviii  inothor" 

Then  he  held  it  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at  it.  The  sub- 
scription crossed  the  whole  face  of  a  half-sheet  of  pai)er.  But 
the  trium])hant  success  of  his  former  effort  had  made  him  bold. 
He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  write  more.  So  he  turned 
the  paper  over  and  wrote  on  the  back — 

'•  tell  pa  pa  not  to  wurry  about  me  i  axpcct  to  be  home  sune  but 
dont  no  ezactly  " 

His  eyes  were  swimming  by  the  time  he  got  that  down,  but 
they  brightened  again  as  he  remembered  something. 

"  Wcve  had  j^rate  times  car  uiielf  .)(» — " 

"  Must  go  on  milking  that  ould  cow,"  he  tboiight. 

"tuk  me  to  sea  the  prins  of  Wales  yesterda" 

He  could  not  help  it— he  l)egan  to  take  a  wild  joy  in  his 
own  inventions. 

"  flags  and  banns  of  musick  all  day  and  luminerashuns  all  ni^'ht 
it  was  grand  we  wj-re  top  of  an  urnnibussgoin  down  lord  streto 
and  saw  him  as  plane  as  plane  " 

"  Ble.ss  me,"  said  Pete,  dropping  his  pen,  and  rubbing  his 
hands  in  ravishing  conteniplation  of  his  own  fiction ;   "  the 


353  THE  MANXMAN. 

next  thing  we  hear  she'll   be  riding  in   her  carriage  and 
pair." 

He  was  sobbing  a  little,  for  all  that,  in  a  low,  smothered 
way,  but  he  could  not  deny  himself  one  word  more — 

*'luv  to  all  enquirin  frens  and  bess  respecs  to  the  Dempster  if  iiu 
not  forgot  at  him." 

This  second  forgery  of  love  being  finished,  he  went  about 
the  house  on  tiptoe,  found  brown  paper  and  twine,  put  the 
hood  back  into  the  box.  with  his  half-sheet  peeping  from  be- 
tween the  frills  where  the  little  face  would  go,  and  made  it  up, 
with  his  undeft  fingers,  into  an  ungainly  parcel,  which  he  ad- 
dressed to  himself  as  before.  After  that  he  did  his  accustomed 
duty  with  the  lamp  and  the  door,  and  lay  down  in  the  parlour 
to  sleep. 

On  Monday,  at  dinner,  he  broke  out  peevishly  with  "  Ter'ble 
botheration,  Nancy — I  must  be  going  to  Port  St.  Mary  about 
that  thundering  demonstration.'' 

Then  from  underneath  the  sofa  in  the  parlour  he  rooted  up 
a  brown  paper  parcel,  stuflFed  it  under  his  coat,  buttoned  it  up, 
and  so  smuggled  it  out  of  the  house. 


VI 

They  set  sail  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  ran  down  the 
coast  under  a  fair  breeze  that  made  the  canvas  play  until  the 
sea  hissed.  The  day  was  wet  and  cheerless ;  a  thick  mist  en- 
shrouded the  land,  and  going  by  Laxey  they  could  just  descry 
the  top  arc  of  the  great  wheel  like  a  dun-coloured  ghost  of  a 
rainbow  in  a  grey  sky.  As  they  came  to  Douglas  the  mist  was 
lifting,  but  the  rain  was  coming  down  in  a  soaking  drizzle.  A 
band  was  playing  dance  tunes  on  the  iron  pier,  which  shot 
like  a  serpent's  tongue  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  bay.  The 
steamer  from  England  was  coming  round  the  head,  and  her 
sea-sick  passengers  were  dense  as  a  crowd  on  her  forward  deck, 
the  men  with  print  handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  caps,  the 
women  with  their  skirts  over  their  drooping  feathei's.  A  harp 
and  a  violin  were  scraping  lively  airs  amidships.  The  town 
was  like  a  cock  with  his  tail  down  crowing  furiously  in  the 
wet. 


MAN  AND  MAN.  ;).Vj 

When  they  carac  to  Port  St.  Mary  the  mist  liad  risen  and 
the  rain  was  gone,  hut  the  fishing'-town  k)oked  bhick  and  sul- 
len under  a  h^wering-  cloud.  Tlie  tide  was  down,  and  many 
boats  lay  on  tlie  beacli  and  in  the  shallow  water  within  tlio 
rocks. 

Pete  was  put  ashore;  his  Nickey  went  round  the  Calf  to 
the  herring  ground  beyond  the  shoulder;  a  number  of  fisher- 
men were  waiting  for  him  on  the  quay,  with  heavy  looks  and 
hands  deep  in  their  trousers-pockets. 

"  No  need  for  much  praichiug  at  all,''  said  Pete,  pointing  to 
the  boats  lying  aground.  "  There  you  are,  boys,  fifty  of  you 
at  the  least,  with  no  room  to  warp  for  the  rocks.  Yet  they're 
for  taxing  you  for  dues  for  a  harbour.'' 

"  Go  ahead,  Capt'u,"  said  one  of  the  fishermen ;  "  there's 
five  hundred  men  .here  to  back  you  up  through  thick  and 
thin." 

Pete  posted  his  brown  paper  parcel  as  stealthily  as  he  had 
posted  his  letter,  and  left  Port  St.  Mary  the  same  night  for 
Douglas.  The  roads  were  thick  with  coaches,  choked  full 
with  pleasure-seekers  from  Port  Erin.  These  cheerful  souls 
were  still  wearing  the  clothes  which  had  been  drenched 
through  in  the  morning;  their  boots  were  damp  and  cold; 
they  were  chill  with  the  night-air,  but  they  did  not  repine. 
The}'  sang  and  laughed  and  ate  oranges,  drew  up  frequently 
at  wayside  houses,  and  handed  round  bottles  of  beer  with  the 
corks  drawn.  In  their  own  way  they  were  bright  and  cheer- 
ful company.  Sometimes  "  Hold  the  Fort,"  sung  in  a  brake 
going  ahead,  mingled  with  "■  Molly  and  I  and  the  Baby,"  from 
lusty  throats  coming  behind.  Rattling  through  Castletown, 
they  shouted  wild  chaff  at  the  redcoats  lounging  by  the 
Castle,  and  when  the  darkness  fell  they  dropped  asleep 
—the  men  usually  on  the  women's  shoulders;  and  then  the 
horses'  hoofs  were  heard  splashing  along  the  muddy  road, 
and  every  rider  cracked  his  whip  over  a  chorus  of  stertorous 
snores. 

Douglas  was  ablaze  with  light  as  thov  dipped  down  to  it 
from  the  dark  country'.  Long  sinuous  tails  of  light  where  the 
busy  streets  were,  running  in  aud  out,  this  way  and  that,  and 
belching  into  the  wide  squares  and  market-places  like  the  race 
of  a  Curragh  fire.  The  sleepers  awoke  and  shook  themselves. 
''  Going  to  tlie  Castle  to-night  ?  "  said  one.     "  Wliat  ilo  you 


3 GO  THE  MANXMAN. 

think  ? "  said  another,  and  they  all  laughed  at  the  foolish 
question. 

"  I'll  sleep  here,"  thought  Pete.  "  I've  not  searched  Doug- 
las yet." 

The  driver  found  him  a  bed  at  his  mother's  house.  It  was 
a  lodging-house  in  Church  Street,  overlooking  the  churchyard. 
Finding  himself  so  near  to  Athol  Street  Pete  thought  he  would 
look  at  the  outside  of  Philip's  chambers.  He  lit  on  the  house 
easily,  though  the  street  was  dark.  It  was  one  of  a  line  of 
houses  having  brass  plates,  each  with  its  name,  and  always  the 
word  Advocate.  Philip's  house  bore  one  plate  only,  a  small 
one,  with  the  name  hardly  legible  in  the  uncertain  light.  It 
ran — The  Deemster  Christian. 

Having  spelt  out  this  inscription,  Pete  crept  away.  That 
was  the  last  house  in  the  island  at  whicli  he  wished  to  call. 
He  was  almost  afraid  of  being  seen  in  the  same  town.  Philip 
might  think  he  was  in  Douglas  to  look  for  Kate. 

Pete  rambled  through  the  narrow  thoroughfares  of  Post- 
Office  Place,  Heywood  Lane,  and  Fancy  Street,  until  he  came 
to  the  sea  front.  It  was  now  full  tide  of  busy  night,  and  the 
holiday  town  seemed  to  be  given  over  to  enjoyment.  The 
steps  of  the  terraces  were  thix)nged ;  itinerant  photographers 
pitched  their  cameras  on  the  curb-stones;  every  open  window 
had  its  dark  heads  with  the  light  behind ;  pianos  were  clashing 
in  the  houses,  harps  were  twanging  in  the  street,  tinkling 
tram-cars,  like  toast-racks,  were  sweeping  the  curve  of  the  bay; 
there  was  a  steady  flow  of  people  on  the  pavement,  and  from 
water's  edge  to  cliff  top,  three  parts  round  like  a  horse's  shoe, 
the  town  flashed  and  fizzed  and  sparkled  and  blazed  under  its 
thousand  lights  with  the  splendour  of  a  forest  fire. 

Pete  called  to  mind  the  blinking  and  groping  of  the  dear 
old  half-lit  town  to  the  north;  he  remembered  the  dark  village 
at  the  foot  of  the  lonely  hills,  with  its  trout-stream  burrowing 
under  the  low  bridge,  and  he  thought,  "  She  may  have  tired  of 
it  all,  poor  thing !  " 

He  looked  at  every  woman's  face  as  she  went  by  him,  hun- 
gering for  one  glimpse  of  a  face  he  feared  to  see.  He  did  not 
see  it,  and  he  wandered  like  a  lost  soul  through  the  little  gay 
town  until  he  drifted  with  the  wave  that  flowed  around  the 
bay  into  the  place  that  was  known  as  the  Castle. 

It  was  a  dancing  palace  in  a  garden,  built  in  the  manner 


MAN   AND   MAN.  3tJl 

of  a  conservatory,  with  the  j^round  level  for  those  who  came 
to  (lance,  and  the  p^allerios  for  such  as  came  to  see.  Seated  by 
the  front  rail  of  the  jj^allery,  Pete  peered  down  into  the  faces 
below.  Three  thousand  younp:  men  and  youn<j:  women  were 
dancinc:,  the  men  in  tlanncls  and  coloured  scarves,  the  women 
in  light  muslins  and  straw  hats.  Sometimes  th<;  white  lights 
in  the  glass  roof  were  coloured  with  red  and  blue  and  yellow. 
The  low  buzz  of  the  dancers'  feet,  the  clang  and  clash  of  the 
brass  instruments,  the  boom  of  the  big  drum,  the  quake  of  the 
glass  house  itself,  and  the  low  rumble  of  the  hollow  lloor  be- 
neath—it was  like  a  battle-field  set  to  nuisic. 

"  She  may  have  tired,  poor  thing  ;  God  knows  she  may," 
thought  Pete. 

His  eyes  were  growing  haz}^  and  his  head  dizzy,  when  he 
became  conscious  of  a  waft  of  perfume  behind  him,  and  a  soft 
voice  saying  at  his  ear,  "  Were  you  looking  for  anybody, 
then?" 

He  turned  with  a  start,  and  looked  at  the  speaker.  It  was 
a  young  girl  with  a  pretty  face,  thick  with  powder.  He  could 
not  be  angry  with  the  little  thing  ;  she  was  so  young,  and  she 
was  smiling. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  icas  looking  for  somebody  ; "  and  then 
he  tried  to  shake  her  off. 

"  Is  it  Maudie,  you  mane,  dear  ?  Are  you  the  young  man 
from  Dublin  ? " 

"Lave  me,  my  girl;  lave  me,"  said  Pete,  patting  her  hand, 
and  twisting  about. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  pity,  and  then  clo.se 
at  his  neck  she  said,  "  A  fine  boy  like  you  shouldn't  be  going 
fretting  his  heart  about  the  best  girl  that's  in." 

He  looked  at  the  pretty  face  again,  and  the  little  knowing 
ail's  began  to  break  down.     "You're  a  Manx  girl,  aren't  you  i"" 

The  smile  vanished  like  a  ilash.  "  How  do  you  know  that? 
My  tongue  doesn't  tell  you,  does  it  ^ "  And  the  little  thing 
was  a.shamed. 

Pete  took  the  tight-gloved  fingers  in  his  big  ])alm.  "So 
you're  my  lil  countrywoman,  tlien  ?"  he  said.  *'  How  old  are 
you?" 

The  painted  lips  began  to  tremble.  "Sixteen  for  harvest," 
she  answered. 

"My  God  ["exclaimed  Pete. 


302  THE  MANXMAN. 

The  darkened  eyelids  blinked  ;  she  was  be^nning  to  cry. 
"It  wasn't  my  fault.  He  was  a  visitor  with  my  mother  at 
Ballaugh,  and  he  left  me  to  it." 

Pete  took  a  sovereign  out  of  his  pocket,  and  shut  it  in  the 
girl's  hand. 

''  Go  home  to-night,  my  dear,"  he  whispered,  and  then  he 
clambered  out  of  the  place. 

"  Not  there  !  "  cried  Pete  in  his  heart  ;  "  not  there — I  swear 
to  God  she  is  not  there." 

That  ended  his  search.  He  resolved  to  go  home  the  same 
night,  and  he  went  back  to  his  lodgings  to  pay  his  bill.  Tm^n- 
ing  out  of  Athol  Street,  Pete  was  almost  overrun  by  a  splendid 
equipage,  with  two  m.en  in  buif  on  the  box-seat,  and  one  man 
behind.  ''The  Governor's  carriage,"  said  somebody.  At  the 
next  moment  it  drew  up  at  Philip's  door,  its  occupant 
alighted,  and  then  it  swung  about  and  moved  away.  "It 
Tvas  the  young  Deemster,"  said  a  girl  to  her  companion,  as 
she  went  skipping  past. 

Pete  had  seen  the  tall,  dark  figure,  bent  and  feeble,  as  it 
walked  heavily  up  the  steps.  "Truth  enough,"  he  thought, 
"  there's  nothing  got  in  this  world  without  paying  the  price 
of  it." 

It  was  three  in  the  morning  when  Pete  reached  Ramsey. 
Elm  Cottage  was  dark  and  silent.  He  had  to  knock  again 
and  again  before  awakening  Nancy.  "  Now,  if  this  had  been 
Kate  ! "  he  thought,  and  a  new  fear  took  hold  of  him.  His 
poor  darling,  his  wandering  lamb,  could  she  have  knocked 
twice  ?  Where  was  she  to-night  ?  He  had  been  picturing  her 
in  happiness  and  plenty — was  she  in  poverty  and  distress  ? 
All  the  world  was  sleeping — was  she  asleep  ?  His  hope  was 
slipping  away  ;  his  great  faith  was  breaking  down.  "  Lord, 
do  not  forsake  me  !  Master,  strengthen  me  !  My  poor  lost 
love,  wiiere  is  she  ?  What  is  she  ?  Shall  I  see  her  face 
again  ? " 

Something  cold  touched  his  hand.  It  was  the  dog.  With- 
out a  bark  he  had  put  his  nose  into  Pete's  palm.  "What, 
Dempster,  man,  Dempster  ! "  The  bat's  ears  were  cocked — 
Pete  felt  them — the  scut  of  a  tail  was  wagged,  and  Pete  got 
comfort  from  the  battered  old  friend  that  had  tramped  the 
world  at  his  heels. 

Nancy  unchained  the  door,  opened  it  an  inch,  held  a  candle 


MAN   AND   MAN.  363 

over  her  head,  and  peered  out.  "My  p^ooducss,  is  it  the  nuui 
liimself  ?     However  did  you  come  home  V 

"By  John  tlie  Fhiyer's  ])()ny,"  said  Pete  ;  and  he  lau<;:hed 
and  made  li«i:ht  of  his  nijjrht-hinp:  walk. 

But  next  morning,',  when  Nancy  came  downsUiirs  with  the 
child,  Pete  was  busy  with  ,a  screwdriver  taking-  the  cliain  off 
the  door.  "Ter'ble  oukl-fashioncd,  the.se  chains — must  be 
mo\nncr  with  the  times,  you  ^low." 

"Then  what  are  you  putting:  in  its  place  ? "  said  Nancy. 

"  You'll  see,  you'll  see,"'  said  Pete. 

At  seven  that  night  Pete  was  smoking  over  the  gate  when 
Kelly  the  Thief  came  up  with  a  brown  pa])er  parcel.  "Parcel 
for  you,  Mr.  Quilliam,"  said  the  jiostman,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  kuew  something  he  should  not  know. 

Pete  blinked  and  looked  bewildered.  "  You  don't  say!  "  he 
said. 

"  Well,  if  that's  your  name,"  began  the  postman,  holding 
the  address  for  Pete  to  read. 

Pete  gave  it  a  searching  look.  "  Cop'n  Peatr  Quilliam, 
that's  it  sartenly,  Lm  Cottig — yes,  it  must  be  right,"  he  said, 

taking  the  parcel  gingerly.    Then  with  a  prohmged  "  O o  I  " 

shutting  his  eyes  and  nodding  his  head,  "/kn(nv— a  bit  of  a 
present  from  the  mother  to  the  lil  one.  Wonderful  thought- 
ful a  woman  is  about  a  baby  when  she's  a  mother,  Mr.  Kelly." 

The  postman  giggled,  threw  his  finger  seaward  over  one 
shoulder,  and  said.  "Why  aren't  you  writing  back  to  her, 
then?" 

"What's  that?"  said  Pete  sharply,  making  the  parcel 
creak. 

"Why  aren't  you  writing  to  tell  her  how  the  lil  one  is,  I'm 
saying  ? " 

Pete  looked  at  the  postman  as  if  the  idea  had  drojiped 
from  heaven.  "  I  must  have  a  head  as  thick  as  a  mooring- 
post,  Mr.  Kelly.  Do  you  know.  I  never  once  thought  of  it. 
I'm  like  Goliath  when  he  got  little  David's  stone  at  his  fore- 
head—such a  thing  never  entered  my  head  before.'' 

"Do  it  for  all.  Mr.  Quilliam,"  siiid  the  postman,  tnovingoff. 

"I  will,  I  will,"  .said  Pete;  and  then  he  turned  into  the 
house. 

"Scissors,  Nancy,"  he  shouted,  throwing  the  parcel  on  the 
table. 

24 


364  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  My  sakes,  a  parcel  I  "  cried  Nancy.  ,    " 

"  Aisy  to  tell  where  it  comes  from,  too.  See  that  knot, 
woman  ?  "  said  Pete,  with  a  knowing  wink. 

"What  in  the  world  is  it,  Pete  ? "  said  Nancy. 

"  I  wonder !  "  said  Pete.  "  Papers  enough  round  it,  any- 
way. A  letter  ?  We'll  look  at  that  after,"  he  said  loftily,  and 
then  out  came  the  scarlet  hood.  "Gough  bless  me!  whafs 
this  thing  at  all  ?  "  and  he  held#  up  by  the  crown. 

Nancy  made  a  cry  of  alarm,  took  the  hood  out  of  his  hand, 
and  scolded  him  roundly.  "  These  men,  they're  fit  to  spoil  an 
angel's  wings." 

Then  she  whipped  up  the  baby  out  of  the  cradle,  tried  the 
hood  on  the  little  round  head,  and  shouted  with  delight. 

"  Now  I  was  thinking  of  that,  d'ye  know  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
was,  yes,  I  was;  believe  me  or  not,  I  was.  'Kirry  will  be 
sending  something  for  the  lil  one  the  next  time  she  writes,'  I 
was  thinking,  and  behould  ye — here  it  is." 

"Something  spakes  to  us,  Nancy,"  said  Pete.  '"Deed  it 
does,  though." 

The  child  gurgled  and  purred,  and  for  all  her  fine  head- 
gear she  was  absorbed  in  her  bare  toes. 

"  And  there's  yourself,  Pete — going  to  Peel  and  to  Douglas, 
and  I  don't  know  where— and  youVe  never  once  thought 
of  the  lil  one — and  knowing  we  were  for  shortening  her, 
too." 

Pete  cast  down  his  head  and  looked  ashamed. 

"Well,  no — of  coorse — I  never  have — that's  truth  enough," 
he  faltered. 


VII. 

Pete  went  out  to  buy  a  sheet  of  notepaper  and  an  envelope, 
a  pen,  and  a  postage  stamp.  He  had  abundance  of  all  these 
at  home,  but  that  did  not  serve  his  turn.  Going  to  as  many 
shops  as  might  be,  he  dropped  hints  everywhere  of  the  purpose 
to  which  his  purchases  were  to  be  put.  Finally,  he  went  to 
the  barber's  in  the  market-place  and  said,  "  Will  you  write  an 
address  for  me,  Jonaique  ? " 

"  Coorse  I  will,"  said  the  barber,  sweeping  a  hand  of  velvet 
over  one  cheek  of  the  postman,  who  was  in  the  chair,  leaving 
the  other  cheek  in  lather  while  he  took  up  the  pen. 


MAN  AND  MAN.  305 

^^  Mistress  Peter  Quilliam^  care  of  Master  Joseph  Quit- 
liam,  Esquire,  Scotland  Road^  Liverpool,'"'  dictated  l*etc. 

''  What  nuniber,  Capt'u  i ''  said  Joiiuique. 

"Number  r'  said  Pete,  jHirplexed.  "Bless  me,  what's  this 
the  number  is  now  ?  Oh,''  by  a  .-uddon  inspiraticjn,  "  five  hun- 
dred and  lifteen." 

"  i'Vfe?  hundred — d  ye  say  fire  /  "  said  the  postman  from  tlio 
half  of  his  moutli  that  was  clear. 

"Five."  said  Pete  emphaticall3\     "  Aw,  they're  well  up." 

"  If  you  say  so,  Capt'u,"  said  the  barber,  and  down  went 
"515." 

Pete  returned  home  with  the  stiimped  and  adtb-essed  enve- 
lope open  in  his  hands.  "  Clane  the  table  quick,"  he  shouted ; 
"  I  must  be  writing  to  Kirry.  Will  I  give  her  your  love, 
Nancy  ? " 

With  much  hem-iug  and  ha-ing  and  clearing  of  his  thro;i»,t, 
Pete  was  settling  himself  before  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Philip  stepped  into  the  house.  His  face 
was  haggard  and  emaciated;  his  eyes  burned  as  with  a  fire 
that  came  up  from  within. 

"  Pve  come  to  warn  you,"  he  said;  "you  are  in  great  dan- 
ger.    You  must  stop  that  demonstration." 

"Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down,"  said  Pete. 

Philip  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  walked  to  and  fro  with 
short,  nervous,  noiseless  stei)S.  "The  Governor  sent  for  me 
last  night,  and  1  found  him  in  a  frenzy.  *  Deemster,'  he  said, 
'the}'  tell  me  there's  to  be  a  disturbance  at  Tynwald — have 
you  heard  of  anything  ? '  I  said,  '  Yes,  I  had  hoard  of  a  meet- 
ing of  fishermen  at  Peel.'  '  They  talk  of  their  rights,' said 
he;  'I'll  teach  them  something  of  one  right  they  seem  to  for- 
get—the right  of  the  Governor  to  shoot  down  tiie  disturbers  of 
Tynwald,  witliout  judge  or  jury.'  '  That's  a  very  old  preroga- 
tive, your  Excellency,'  I  said;  *  it  comes  down  from  more  law- 
less days  than  ours.  You  will  nev^er  use  it.'  'Will  I  not  ?' 
said  he.  'Listen,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  done  already.  I've 
ordered  the  regiment  at  Ca.stletown  to  be  on  Tynwald  Hill  on 
Tynwald  day.  Everj'  man  of  these — there  are  three  hundred 
— shall  have  twenty  rounds  of  ball-cartridge.  Then,  if  the 
vagabonds  ti-y  to  interrupt  the  Court,  I've  only  to  lift  my 
hand — so— and  they'll  be  mown  down  like  grass.'  '  You  can't 
mean    it,'   I   said,    and  I   tried    to  t^ike    his   big   talk  lightly. 


366  THE  MANXMAN. 

'  Judge  for  yourself — see,'  and  lie  showed  me  a  paper.  It  was 
au  order  for  the  ambulance  waggons  to  be  stationed  on  the 
ground,  and  a  request  to  the  doctoi's  of  Douglas  to  be  present." 

"Then  we've  made  the  ould  boy  see  that  we  mane  it,"  said 
Pete. 

"'If  you  know  any  one  of  the  ringleaders,  Deemster,'  he 
said,  with  a  look  into  my  face — somebody  had  been  with  him 
— there  are  tell-tales  everywhere " 

"  It's  the  way  of  the  world  still,"  said  Pete. 

'"Tell  him,'  said  he,  'that  I  don't  want  to  take  the  life  of 
any  man — I  don't  want  to  send  any  one  to  penal  servitude.' 
It  was  useless  to  protest.  The  man  was  mad.  but  he  was  in 
earnest.  His  plan  was  folly — frantic  folly — but  it  was  based 
on  a  sort  of  legal  right.  So,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  Pete,  stop 
this  thing.  Stop  it  at  once,  and  finally.  It's  life  or  death. 
If  ever  you  thought  my  word  worth  anything,  you'll  do  as  I 
bid  you,  now.  God  knows  where  I  should  be  myself  if  the 
Governor  were  to  do  what  he  threatens.  Stop  it,  stop  it  ;  I 
haven't  slept  for  thinking  of  it." 

Pete  had  been  sitting  at  the  table,  chewing  the  tip  of  the 
pen,  and  now  he  lifted  to  the  paleness  and  wildness  of  Philip's 
face  a  cool,  bold  smile. 

"  It's  good  of  you,  Phil.  .  .  .  We've  a  right  to  be  there, 
though,  haven't  we  ?" 

"  You've  a  right,  certainly,  but " 

"Then,  by  gough,  we'll  go,"  said  Pete,  dropping  the  pen, 
and  bringing  his  fist  do\\Ti  on  the  table. 

"  The  penalty  will  be  yours,  Pete — yours.  You  ai*e  the 
man  who  will  suffer — you  first— you  alone." 

Pete  smiled  again.  '"  No  use — I'm  incorr'ible.  I'm  like 
Dan-ny-Clae.  the  slieep-stealer,  when  he  came  to  die.  'I'm 
going  to  eternal  judgment — what'll  I  do  ?'  says  Dan.  ' Give 
back  all  you've  stolen,'  says  the  parzon.  '  I'll  chance  it  first,' 
says  the  ould  rascal.  It's  the  other  fellow  that's  for  stealing 
this  time  ;  but  I'll  chance  it,  Philip.  Death  it  may  be,  and 
judgment  too,  but  I'll  chance  it,  boy." 

Philip's  eyes  wandered  over  the  floor.  "  Then  you'll  not 
change  your  plan  for  anvthing  I've  told  you  ? " 

"  I  will,  though,"  said  Pete,  "  for  one  thing,  anyway.  You 
shan't  be  getting  into  trouble — I'll  be  spokesman  for  the  fish- 
ermen myself.     Oh,  I'll  spake  enough  if  they  get  my  dander 


MAN   AND    MAN. 


^♦;7 


up.  I'll  just  square  my  anns  acM-ost  my  <'bo^t  and  I'll  say, 
'Your  Excelleucy,'  I'll  sa}',  'youcau't  do  it,  and  you  shan't 
do  it— because  it  isnt  rujht.'  But  chut  !  botheration  to  all 
such  bobbery  !  Look  here — man  alive,  look  here  !  She's  not 
forgettin<j  the  lil  one,  you  see,"  and,  making  a  proud  sweep  of 
the  hand,  Pete  pointed  to  the  scarlet  hood.  It  had  been  put 
to  sit  across  the  back  of  a  china  dog-  on  the  mantelpiece,  with 
Pete's  half  sheet  of  paper  pinned  to  the  strin;,'-s. 

Philip  recos^nised  it.  The  hood  was  the  present  he  had 
made  iis  godfather.  His  eyes  blinked,  his  mouth  twitched, 
the  cords  of  his  forehead  moved. 

"  So  she — she  sent  that,"  he  stanmiered. 

''  Listen  here,"  said  Pete,  and  he  unpinned  the  paper  and 
read  the  message  aloud,  with  flourishes  of  voice  and  gesture — 
'^  Fo7'  lil  Katherine  from  her  loving  mother  .  .  .  pupa  not  to 
worry  .  .  .  lore  to  all  iiKjxiring  friends  .  .  .  best  respects  to 
the  Dempster  if  Fm  not  forgot  at  Jiim/'  Then  in  an  ofF-hand 
way  he  tossed  the  paper  into  the  fire.  "  Aw,  what's  a  bit  of  a 
letter,"  he  said  largely,  as  it  took  flame  and  burned. 

Philip's  bloodshot  eyes  seemed  to  be  starting  from  his 
head. 

"Nancy's  right — a  man  would  never  have  thought  of  the 
like  of  that — now,  would  he  ? "  said  Pete,  looking  proudly 
from  Philip  to  the  hood,  and  from  the  hood  back  to  Philip. 

Philip  did  not  answer.  Something  seemed  to  be  throttling 
him, 

"  But  when  a  woman  goes  away  she  leaves  her  eyes  behind 
her,  as  you  might  say.  '  What'U  I  be  getting  for  them  that's 
at  home  ? '  she's  thinking,  and  up  comes  a  nice  warm  lil  thing 
for  the  baby.  Aw,  the  women's  good,  Philip.  They're  what 
they  make  the  sovereigns  of,  God  bless  them  !  " 

Pliilip  felt  as  if  he  must  rush  out  of  the  house  shrieking. 
One  moment  he  stood  up  before  Pete,  as  though  ho  meant  to 
say  something,  and  then  he  turned  to  go. 

"Not  sleeping  to-night,  no?  Have  to  get  back  to  Doug- 
las ?    Then  maybe  you'll  write  me  a  letter  first  ?  " 

Philip  nodded  his  head  and  returned,  his  mouth  tightly 
closed,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  took  up  the  pen. 

"Whatisit  ?"hea.sked. 

"Am  T  to  give  you  the  word.s,  Pliil  i  Yes  f  Well,  if  you 
won't  be  thinking  mane " 


368  THE  MANXMAN. 

Pete  charged  his  pipe  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  be- 
gan to  dictate :  "  '  Dear  wife.'  " 

At  that  Philip  gave  an  involuntary  cry. 

"Aw,  best  to  begin  prox>er,  you  know.  'Dear  wife,'  "  said 
Pete  again. 

Philip  made  a  call  on  his  resolution,  and  put  the  words 
down.  His  hand  felt  cold;  his  heart  felt  frozen  to  the  core. 
Pete  lit  up,  and  walked  to  and  fro  as  he  dictated  his  letter. 
Nancy  sat  knitting  by  the  cradle,  with  one  foot  on  the  rocker. 

"' '  Glad  to  get  your  welcome  letter,  darling,  and  the  bonnet 
for  the  baby ' " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Philip,  in  an  impassive  voice. 

"  Got  that  down,  Philip  ?  Aw,  you're  smart  wonderful 
with  the  pen,  though.  .  .  .  '  When  she's  got  it  on  her  lil  head 
you'd  laugh  tremenjous.  She's  straight  like  a  lil  John  the 
Baptist  in  the  church  window' " 

Pete  paused ;  Philip  lifted  his  pen  and  waited. 

"  Done  already  ?  Man  veen,  there's  no  houlding  you.  .  .  . 
'  Glad  to  hear  you're  so  happy  and  comfortable  with  Uncle 
Joe  and  Auntie  Joney.  Give  the  pair  of  them  my  fond  love 
and  best  respects.  We're  getting  on  beautiful,  and  I'm  as 
happy  as  a  sandboy.  Sometimes  Grannie  gets  a  bit  down 
with  longing,  and  so  does  Nancy,  but  I  tell  them  you'll  be 
home  for  their  funeral  sarmon,  anyway,  and  then  they're 
comforted  wonderful,' '' 

"  Don't  be  writing  his  rubbage  and  lies,  your  Honour,"  said 
Nancy. 

"  Chut !  woman ;  where's  the  harm  at  all  ?  A  merry  touch 
to  keep  a  person's  spirits  up  when  she's  away  from  home — eh, 
Philip  ?  "  and  Pete  appealed  to  him  with  a  nudge  at  his  writ- 
ing elbow. 

Philip  gave  no  sign.  With  a  look  of  stupor  he  was  staring 
down  at  the  pajx^i*  as  he  wrote.     Pete  puffed  and  went  on — 

" '  Caesar's  at  it  still,  going  through  the  Bible  same  as  a 
trawl-boat,  fishing  up  the  little  texes.  The  Dempster's  putting 
a  sight  on  us  reg'lar,  and  you're  not  forgot  at  him  neither. 
'Deed  no,«but  thinking  of  you  constant,  and  trusting  you're 

the  better  for  laving  home '  .  .  .  Going  too  fast,  am  I  ? 

So  I'm  bating  you  at  last,  eh  ?" 

A  cold  perspiration  had  broken  out  on  Philip's  forehead, 
and  he  was  looking  up  with  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  dog. 


MAX    AND   MAX.  3^9 

"Am  I  to— must  I  write  that  ?  "  lio  said  in  a  liolploss  way. 

"Coorse— go  ahead,"  said  Pete,  pulliii<,^  clouds  of  smoke, 
and  laugliiugr. 

Philip  wrote  it.  His  hand  was  now  stiff.  It  sprawled  and 
si)lashed  over  the  paper. 

"  '  As  for  my.self,  I'm  a  sort  of  a  grass-widow,  and  if  you 
keep  me  without  a  wife  much  louger  they'll  be  taxing  me  for 
a  bachelor.'" 

Pete  put  his  pii)e  on  the  mantelpiece,  cleared  his  throat  re- 
peatedly, and  began  to  be  atHicted  with  a  cougli. 

'' '  Glad  to  hear  you're  comiug  home  soon,  darling  (cough). 
Dearest  Kirry,  I'm  missing  you  mortal  (cough),  worse  nor  at 
Kimberley  (cough).  When  I'm  going  to  bed,  'Where  is  she 
to-night  ? '  I'm  saying.  And  when  I'm  getting  up,  '  Where  is 
she  now  ? '  I'm  thinking.  And  in  the  dark  midnight  I'm  ask- 
ing myself, '  Is  she  asleep,  I  wonder  if '  (Cougli,  cough.)  Come 
home  quick,  bogh;  but  not  before  you're  well  at  all.'  .  .  . 
Never  do  to  fetch  her  too  soon,  you  know,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper  over  Philip's  shoulder,  with  another  nudge  at  his 
elbow. 

Philip  answered  incoherently,  and  shrank  under  Pete's 
touch  as  if  he  had  been  burnt.  The  coughing  continued;  the 
dictating  began  again. 

"  'I'm  keeping  a  warm  nest  for  you  here,  love.  There'll  be 
a  welcome  from  everybody,  and  nobody  saying  anything  but 
the  good  and  the  kind.  So  come  home  soon,  my  true  lil  wife, 
before  the  foolish  ould  heart  of  your  husband  is  losing 
him ' " 

Pete  coughed  violently,  and  stretched  his  neck  and  mouth 
awry.  "  This  cough  I've  got  in  my  neck  is  fit  to  tear  me  in 
pieces,"  he  said.  "A  spoonful  of  cold  pinjane,  Nancy — it's 
ter'ble  good  to  soften  the  neck." 

Nancy  was  nodding  over  the  cradle — she  had  fallen  asleep. 

Philip  had  turned  white  and  giddy  and  sick.  For  one  mo- 
ment an  awful  impulse  seized  him.  He  wanted  to  fall  on 
Pete;  to  lay  hold  of  him,  to  choke  him.  The  consciousness  of 
his  own  inferiority,  his  own  duplicity,  made  him  hate  Pete. 
The  very  sweetness  of  the  man  sickened  him.  He  could  not 
help  it — the  last  spark  of  his  self-pride  was  fighting  for  its  life. 
Then  in  shame,  in  remorse,  in  horror  of  himself  and  dread  of 
everything,  he  threw  down  the  pen,  caught  up  his  hat,  shouted 


370  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Good  night "  in  a  voice  like  the  growl  of  a  beast  in  terror, 
and  ran  out  of  the  house. 

Nancy  started  up  from  a  doze.  "  Groodness  grazhers ! "  she 
cried,  and  the  cradle  rocked  violently  under  her  foot. 

"He's  that  tender-hearted  and  sympathising,"  whispered 
Pete  as  he  closed  the  door.  {Cough,  cough  )  .  .  .  "  The  let- 
ter's finished,  though — and  here's  the  envelope." 


YIII. 

The  following  evening  the  Deemster  was  in  his  rooms  in 
Atliol  Street.  His  hat  was  on,  his  cloak  was  over  his  arm,  he 
w^as  resting  his  elbow  on  the  sash  of  the  window  and  looldng 
vacantly  into  the  churchyard.  Jem  was  behind  him,  answer- 
ing at  his  back.  Their  voices  were  low;  they  scarcely 
moved. 

'•  All  well  upstairs  ? "  said  Philip. 

"Pretty  well,  your  Honour." 

"  More  cheerful  and  content  ? " 

"Much  more,  except  when  your  Honour  is  from  home. 
'The  Deemster's  back,'  she'll  say,  and  her  poor  face  will  be 
like  sunshine  on  a  rainy  day." 

Philip  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice — 

"  Not  fretting  so  much  about  the  child,  Jemmy  ? " 

"  Just  as  anxious  to  hear  of  it,  though.  '  Has  he  been  to 
Ramsey  to-day  ?  Did  he  see  her  ?  Is  she  well  ? '  That's  the 
word  constant,  sir." 

The  Deemster  was  silent  again,  and  Jem  was  withdrawing 
with  a  deep  bow.  "  Jemmy,  I'm  going  to  Government  House, 
and  may  be  late.     Don't  wait  up  for  me." 

Jem  answered  in  a  half  whisper,  "  Some  one  waits  up  for 
your  Honour  whether  I  do  or  not.  '  He's  at  home  now,'  she'll 
say,  and  then  creep  away  to  bed." 

Philip  muttered,  thickly  and  huskily,  "  The  decanter  is 
empty — leave  out  another  bottle."  Then  he  turned  to  go 
from  the  room,  keeping  his  eyes  from  his  servant's  face. 

He  found  the  Governor  as  violent  as  before,  and  eager  to 
fall  on  him  before  he  had  time  to  speak. 

"  They  tell  me,  Deemster,  that  the  leader  of  this  rising  is  a 


MAN    AND    MAN.  37 [ 

sort  of  left-hand  relative  of  yours.  Surely  3^011  can  slop  the 
man." 

"I've  tried  to,  your  Excellency,  and  faih>d,"  said  IMiilij*. 

The  Governor  t<issed  up  his  chin.  "I'm  told  tlio  fillow 
can't  even  write  his  own  name,*'  he  .said. 

"It's  true,"  saitl  Philip. 

"An  illiterate  and  utterly  uneducated  peraon." 

"All  the  siime,  he's  the  wisest  and  strongest  man  on  this 
island,"  said  Pliilip  decisively. 

The  Governor  frowned,  and  the  pockmarks  on  his  foi'ehead 
.seemed  to  swell.  "  The  wisest  and  strong-est  man  on  this  island 
will  have  to  leave  it,"  he  said. 

Philip  made  no  answer.  He  had  come  to  plead,  hut  he 
saw  that  it  was  hopeless.  The  Governor  put  his  rig-ht  hand 
in  the  breast  of  his  white  waistcoat — he  was  alone  in  the  dinin<^- 
rooni  after  dinner — and  darted  at  Philip  a  look  of  auger  and 
command. 

"Deemster,"  he  said,  "if,  as  you  say,  you  cannot  stop  this 
low-bred  rascal,  there's  one  thing  you  can  do — leave  him  to 
him.self." 

"That  is  to  say,"  said  Philip  out  of  a  corner  of  his  mouth, 
"to  you." 

"  To  me  be  it,  and  who  has  more  right  ? "  said  the  Governor 
botly. 

Philip  held  himself  in  hand.  He  was  silent,  and  his  silence 
was  taken  for  submission.  Cracking  some  nuts  and  munch- 
ing them,  the  Governor  began  to  take  another  tone. 

"I  should  be  sorry,  Mr.  Christian,  if  anything  came  l>e- 
tween  you  and  me — very  sorry.  We've  been  good  friends 
thus  far,  and  you  will  allow  that  you  owe  me  something. 
Don't  you  see  it  yourself — this  man  is  dishonouring  me  in 
the  eyes  of  the  island  ?  «If  you  have  tried  your  best  to  keep 
his  neck  out  of  the  halter,  let  the  consequences  Ik)  his  own." 

'•Eh  ?"  .said  Philip,  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"You  have  done  your  duty  by  the  man,  I  say.  Help  your- 
self to  a  gla.ss  of  wine," 

Still  Philip  did  not  speak.  The  Governor  saw  his  advan- 
tage, but  little  did  he  gurss  the  pitiless  power  of  it. 

"The  fellow  is  your  kinsman.  Deemster,  and  I  shall  not 
ask  you  to  deal  with  him.  That  would  1m'  inhuman.  If  tluro 
is  no  hope  of  restraining  him  to-morrow — wise  as  he  is,  if  he 


372  THE  MANXMAN. 

will  not  listen  to  saner  counsels,  I  will  only  beg  of  you — ^but 
this  is  a  matter  for  the  police.  You  are  a  high  official  now. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  give  you  pain.  Stay  at  home — I'll  gladly 
excuse  you — you  look  as  if  a  day's  rest  would  do  you  good." 

Philip  drank  two  glasses  of  the  wine  in  quick  succession. 
The  Grovernor  poured  him  a  third,  and  went  on — 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  feeling  for  the  man  may  be — 
it  can't  be  friendship.  I'm  sure  he's  a  thorn  in  your  flesh. 
And  as  long  as  he's  here  he  will  always  be." 

Philip  looked  up  with  inquiry,  doubt,  and  fear. 

"  Ah  !  I  knew  it.  Even  if  this  matter  goes  by,  your  time 
will  come.  You'll  quarrel  with  the  fellow  yet — you  know 
you  wdll — it's  in  the  nature  of  things — if  he's  the  man  you 
say." 

Philip  drank  the  third  glass  of  wine  and  rose  to  go. 

'"Leave  him  to  me— I'll  dt'al  with  him.  You'll  be  done 
with  him,  and  a  good  riddance,  too,  I  reckon.  And  now  come 
in  to  the  ladies — they'll  know  you're  here." 

Philip  excused  himself  and  went  off  with  feverish  gestures 
and  an  excited  face. 

"  The  Governor  is  right,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  home 
over  the  dark  roads.  Pete  was  a  thorn  in  his  flesh,  and  al- 
ways would  be  ;  his  enemy,  his  relentless  enemy,  notwith- 
standing his  love  for  him. 

The  misery  of  the  past  month  could  not  be  supported  any 
longer.  Perpetual  fear  of  discovery,  perpetual  guard  of  the 
tongue,  keeping  watch  and  ward  on  every  act  of  life — to-day, 
to-morrow,  the  next  day,  on  and  on  until  life's  end  in  wretched- 
ness or  disgrace— it  was  insupportable,  it  was  impossible,  it 
could  not  be  attempted. 

Tlien  came  thoughts  that  were  too  fearful  to  take  form- 
too  awful  to  take  words.  They  were  like  the  flapping  of  un- 
seen wings  going  by  him  in  the  night,  but  the  meaning  of 
them  was  this  :  If  Pete  persists  in  his  purpose,  there  will  be 
a  riot.  If  any  one  is  injured,  Pete  will  be  transported.  If 
any  one  is  killed,  Pete  will  be  indicted  for  his  life. 

"  Well,  I  have  done  my  duty  by  him,"  his  heart  whimpered. 
"I  have  tried  to  restrain  him.  I  have  tried  to  restrain  the 
Governor.     It  isn't  my  fault.     What  more  can  I  do  ?  " 

Philip  walked  fast.  Here  was  the  way  of  escape  from  the 
evil  that  beset  his  path.     Fate  was  stretching  out  her  hands 


MAN   AND   MAN.  ;57;3 

to  him.  When  men  had  done  wronp:,  they  did  yet  more 
wrong  to  eUide  the  conso(iuences  of  their  fii-st  fault  ;  but  there 
was  no  need  for  that  in  his  case. 

The  hour  was  late.  A  strong  breeze  wius  blowing  ofl'  tlie 
sea.  It  flicked  his  face  with  salt  as  he  went  swinging  down 
the  hill  into  the  town.  His  bloml  was  a-lire.  He  had  a  feel- 
ing, never  felt  before,  of  courage  and  even  ferocity.  Some- 
thing told  him  that  he  was  not  so  good  a  man  as  he  had  been, 
but  it  was  a  tingling  pleasure  to  feel  that  he  was  a  stronger 
man  than  before. 

Should  he  tell  Kate  ?  No  !  Let  the  thing  go  on  ;  let  it 
end.  After  it  was  over  she  would  see  where  their  account  lay. 
Thinking  in  this  way,  he  laughed  aloud. 

The  town  was  quiet  when  he  came  to  it.  So  absorbed  had 
he  been  that,  though  the  air  was  sharp,  he  had  been  carrying 
his  cloak  over  his  arm.  Now  he  put  it  on,  and  drew  the  hood 
close  over  his  head.  A  dog,  a  homeless  cur,  had  begun  to  fol- 
low at  his  heels.  He  drove  it  off,  but  it  continued  to  hang 
about  him.  At  last  it  got  in  front  of  his  feet,  and  he  stumbled 
over  it  in  one  of  his  large,  quick  strides.  Then  he  kicked  the 
dog,  and  it  crossed  the  dai'k  street  yelping.  He  was  a  woi'se 
man,  and  he  knew  it. 

He  let  himself  into  the  house  with  his  latch-key,  and 
banged  the  door  behind  his  back.  But  no  sooner  had  he 
breathed  the  soft,  woolly,  stagnant  air  within  than  a  change 
came  over  him.  His  ferocious  strength  ebbed  away,  and  he 
began  to  tremble. 

The  hall  passage  and  staircase  were  in  darkness.  This  was 
by  his  orders — coming  in  late,  he  always  forgot  to  put  out  the 
gas.  But  the  lamp  of  his  room  was  burning  on  the  cimdle 
rest  at  the  stairhead,  and  it  cast  a  long  sword  of  light  down 
the  staircase  well. 

Chilled  b^'  some  anknown  fear,  he  had  set  one  foot  on  the 
first  tread  when  he  thought  he  heard  the  .step  of  some  one 
coming  down  the  stairs.  It  was  a  familiar  step.  He  was  sure 
he  knew  it.     It  must  be  a  step  he  heard  daily. 

He  stopped,  and  the  step  seemed  to  stop  also.  At  that  mo- 
ment there  was  a  shuffling  of  slippei-cd  fe<'t  on  an  upper  land- 
ing, and  Jem-y-Lord  called  down,  "Is  it  you,  your  Honour  T' 

With  an  effort  he  answered,  "Yes." 

"  Is  anvthinsT  the  matter  :■  "  <'alle(V  the  man-servant. 


374  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  There's  somebody  coming  downstairs,  isn't  there  ? ''  said 
Philip. 

"  Somebody  coming  downstairs  ?  "  repeated  the  man-serv- 
ant, and  the  light  shifted  as  if  he  were  lifting  the  lamj). 

''  Is  it  you  coming  down,  Jem  ?  " 

"  Me  coming  down  ?  I'm  here,  holding  the  lamp,  your 
Honour." 

"Another  of  my  fancies,"  thought  Philip  ;  and  he  laid 
hold  of  the  handrail,  and  started  afresh.  The  step  came  on. 
He  knew  it  now;  it  was  his  own  step.  "An  echo,"  he  told 
himself.  "  A  dream,"  he  thought,  "a  mirage  of  the  mind;" 
and  he  compelled  himself  to  go  up.  The  step  came  down.  It 
passed  him  on  the  stairs,  going  by  the  wall  as  he  went  by  the 
rail,  with  an  irresistible  down-drive,  headlong,  heavily. 

Then  came  one  of  those  moments  of  partial  unconscious- 
ness in  which  the  sensation  of  a  sound  takes  shape.  It  seemed 
to  Philip  that  the  figure  of  a  man  had  passed  him.  He  re- 
membered it  instantly.  It  was  the  same  that  he  had  seen  in 
the  lobby  to  the  Council  Chamber,  his  own  figure,  but  wrapped 
in  a  cloak  like  the  one  he  was  then  wearing,  and  with  the 
hood  drawn  over  the  head.  The  body  had  been  half  turned 
aside,  the  face  had  been  hidden,  and  the  whole  form  had  ex- 
pressed contempt,  repugnance,  and  loathing. 

"  Not  well  to-night,  your  Honour  ?  "  said  the  far-ofF  voice 
of  Jem-y-Lord.  He  was  holding  the  dazzling  lamp  up  to  the 
Deemster's  face. 

"  A  little  faint— that's  all.     Go  to  bed." 

Then  Philip  was  alone  in  his  room.  "  Conscience  ! "  he 
thought.  "  Pete  may  go,  but  this  will  be  with  me  to  the  end. 
Which,  O  God  ?— which  ?  " 

He  poured  out  half  a  tumbler  from  the  bottle  on  the  table, 
and  gulped  it  down  at  a  draught.  At  the  same  moment  he 
heard  a  light  foot  overhead.  It  was  a  woman's  foot  ;  it 
crossed  the  floor,  and  then  ceased. 


IX. 

Next  morning  the  Deemster  was  still  sleeping  while  the 
sun  was  shining  into  his  room.  He  was  awakened  by' a  thun- 
derous clamour,  which  came  as  from  a  nail  driven  into  the 


MAN    AND    MAN.  ;j75 

back  of  Ill's  head.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  realised  that  somebody 
Wius  kiioekino:  at  his  door,  and  slioutiiiff  in  a  robustious  bass— 

"  Christian,  I  say  !     Ever  ^o\u<i;  to  g^ct  up  at  all  ? " 

It  was  tlie  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  Under  one  of  his  heavy 
lK)undings  the  catch  of  the  door  gave  way,  and  he  stepped 
into  the  room. 

*' Dej^enerate  Manxman!''  he  roared.  "In  bed  on  Tyn- 
wald  morninnr.  Pooh !  this  room  smells  of  dead  sleep,  dead 
spirits,  and  dead  everything-.  Let  me  get  at  that  window— you 
pitch  your  clothes  all  over  the  floor.  Ah  !  that's  fresher  I 
Heiidache  ?  I  should  think  so.  Get  up,  then,  and  I'll  drive 
you  to  St.  John's." 

"Don't  think  I'll  go  to-day,  sir,"  said  Philip  in  a  feeble 
whimper. 

"  Not  go  ?  Holy  saints  !  Judge  of  his  island  and  not  go 
to  Tynwald  !     What  will  the  Governor  say  ? " 

"He  said  last  night  he  would  excuse  my  absence." 

"  Excuse  j^our  fiddlesticks  I  The  air  will  do  you  good. 
I've  got  the  carriage  below.  Listen  !  it's  striking  ten  by  the 
church.  I'll  give  you  fifteen  minutes,  and  step  into  your 
break  fast -room  and  look  over  the  Times.'''' 

The  Clerk  rolled  out,  and  then  Philip  heard  his  loud  voice 
through  the  door  in  conversation  with  Jem-y-Lord. 

"  And  how's  Mrs.  Cottier  to-day  ?  " 

"  Middling,  sir,  thank  j^ou,  sir." 

"You  don't  let  us  see  too  much  of  her,  Jemmy." 

"  Not  been  well  since  coming  to  Douglas,  sir." 

Cups  and  saucers  rattled,  the  newspaper  creaked,  the  Clerk 
cleared  his  throat,  and  there  was  silence. 

Philip  rose  with  a  heavy  heart,  still  in  the  torment  of  his 
great  temptation.  He  remembered  the  vision  of  the  night  Ix)- 
fore,  and,  broad  morning  as  it  was,  he  trembled.  In  the  Isle 
of  Man  such  vi.sions  are  understood  to  foretell  death,  and  the 
man  who  sees  them  is  said  to  "see  his  soul."  But  Philip  had 
no  superstitions.  He  knew  what  the  vision  was  :  he  knew 
what  the  vision  meant. 

Jem-y-Lord  came  in  with  hot  water,  and  Philip,  without 
looking  round,  said  in  a  low  tone  as  the  door  closed,  "  How 
now,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  Fretting  again,  your  Honour,"  said  tlie  man,  in  a  half 
whisper.     He  busied  himself  in  the  room  a  nionicnt.  and  tlicn 


376  THE  MANXMAN. 

added,  "  Somehow  she  gets  to  know  things.  Yesterday  even- 
ing now — I  was  taking  down  some  of  the  bottles,  and  I  met 
her  on  the  stairs.     Next  time  I  saw  her  she  was  crying." 

Philip  said  in  a  confused  way,  fumbling  the  razor.  "  Tell 
her  I  intend  to  see  her  after  Tynwald." 

"  I  have,  your  Honour.  '  It's  not  that,  Mr.  Cottier,'  she 
answered  me." 

"  My  wig  and  gown  to-day,  Jemmy,"  said  Philip,  and  he 
went  out  in  his  robes  as  Deemster. 

The  day  was  bright,  and  the  streets  were  thronged  with 
vehicles.  Brakes,  Avagonettes,  omnibuses,  private  carriages, 
and  cadger's  carts  all  loaded  to  their  utmost,  were  climbing 
out  of  Douglas  by  way  of  the  road  to  Peel.  The  town  seemed 
to  shout  ;  the  old  island  rock  itself  seemed  to  laugh. 

"  Bless  me,  Christian,"  said  the  Clerk  of  the  Polls,  looldng 
at  his  watch, ''  do  you  know  it's  half-past  ten  ?  Service  begins 
at  eleven.  Drive  on,  coachman.  You've  eight  miles  to  do  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  Can't  go  any  faster  with  this  traffic  on  the  road,  sir,"  said 
the  coachman  over  his  shoulder. 

"I  got  so  absorbed  in  the  newspaper,"  said  the  Clerk, 
"that Well,  if  we're  late,  we're  late,  that's  all." 

Philip  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and  hung  his  head. 
He  was  fighting  a  great  battle. 

"  No  idea  that  the  fisherman  affair  was  going  to  be  so  seri- 
ous," said  the  Clerk.  "  It  seems  the  Governor  has  ordered 
out  every  soldier  and  pensioner.  If  I  know  my  coiuitrymen, 
they'll  not  stand  much  of  that." 

Philip  drew  a  long  breath  :  there  was  a  cloud  of  dust  ;  the 
women  in  the  brakes  were  laughing. 

"  I  hear  a  whisper  that  the  ringleader  is  a  friend  of  yours. 
Christian — '  an  irregular  relative  of  a  high  oflicial,'  as  the  re- 
porter says." 

"  He  is  my  cousin,  sir,"  said  Philip. 

"  What  ?  The  big,  curly -pated  fellow  you  took  home  in 
the  carriage  ?  .  .  .  I  say,  coachman,  no  need  to  drive  quite  so 
fast." 

Philip's  head  was  still  down.  The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  sat 
watching  him  with  an  anxious  face. 

"  Christian,  I  am  not  so  sure  the  Governor  wasn't  right 
after  all.     Is  this  what's  been  troubling  you  for  a  month  ? 


MAN   AND   MAN.  ;{77 

You're  the  deuce  for  a  secret.  If  there's  anything;'  p^ood  to 
tell,  youVe  up  like  the  sun;  but  if  there's  bad  news  ^oinp:,  au 
owl  is  a  iK>ll-pari"t>t  compared  with  you  for  talkinj^.'' 

Philip  made  some  feeble  effort  to  hui«rh,  and  to  say  liis 
head  was  still  aching.  They  were  on  tlie  breast  of  tin*  sti'cp 
hill  fToing"  up  to  Greeba.  The  road  ahead  was  like  a  funnel 
of  dust  ;  the  road  behind  was  like  the  tail  of  a  comet. 

''  Pity  a  tine  lad  like  that  should  get  into  trouble,"  said  the 
Clerk.  "I  like  the  rascal.  He  got  round  an  old  niinrs  heart 
like  a  rope  round  a  capstan.  One  of  the  bi<^,  hearty  doj^ 
that  make  you  say, '  By  Jove,  and  I*ni  a  Manxman,  too.'  He's 
in  the  right  in  this  affair,  whatever  the  Governor  may  .say. 
And  the  Governor  knows  it,  Christian— that's  why  he's  so 
anxious  to  excuse  jou.  He  can  overawe  the  Keys  ;  and  as 
for  the  Council,  we'i*e  paid  our  wages,  God  bless  us,  and  ai-e 
so  many  stuffed  snipes  on  his  stick.  But  you — you're  differ- 
ent. Then  the  man  is  your  kinsman,  and  blood  is  thicker 
than  water,  if  it's  only Why,  what's  this  i " 

There  was  some  wlioo})ing  behind  ;  the  line  of  carriages 
swirled  like  a  long  serpent  half  a  yard  near  the  hedge,  and 
through  the  grey  dust  a  large  covered  car  shot  by  at  the  gal- 
lop of  a  fire-engine.     The  Clerk -sat  bolt  upright. 

"  Now,  what  in  the  name  of " 

"  It's  an  ambulance  waggon,"  said  Philip  between  his  set 
teeth. 

A  moment  later  a  second  waggon  went  galloping  past,  then 
a  third,  and  finally  a  fourth. 

"Well,  upon  my Ah!   good  day.  Doctor  I     Good  day, 

good  day  I  " 

The  Clerk  had  recognised  friends  oji  the  waggons,  and  was 
returning  their  salutations.  When  they  were  gone,  he  fii*st 
looked  at  Philip,  and  then  shouted,  "Coachman,  right  about 
face.     We're  going  home  again— and  chance  it." 

"We  can't  be  turning  liere,  sir,"  said  Ibe  coachman.  "Thr 
vehicles  are  coming  up  like  l>ees  going  a-swarming.  We'll 
have  to  go  as  far  as  Tynwald,  anyway." 

"Go  on,"  said  Philip  in  a  determined  voice. 

After  a  while  the  Clerk  said,  "Christian,  it  isn't  worth 
while  getting  into  trouble  over  this  affair.  After  all,  tbe  (iov- 
ernor  is  the  Governor.  Besides,  he's  been  a  good  friend  to 
you." 


378  THE  MANXMAN. 

Philip  was  passing"  through  a  purgatorial  fire,  and  his  old 
master  was  feeding"  it  with  fuel  on  every  side.  They  were 
Hearing  Tynwald,  and  could  see  the  flags,  the  tents,  and  the 
crowd  as  of  a  vast  encampment,  and  hear  the  deep  hum  of  a 
multitude,  like  the  murmur  of  a  distant  sea. 


X. 

Tynwald  Hill  is  the  ancient  Parliament  ground  of  Man. 
It  is  an  open  green  in  the  midst  of  the  island,  with  hills  en 
three  of  its  sides,  and  on  the  fourth  a  hroad  plain  dipping  to 
the  coast.  This  green  is  of  the  shape  of  a  guitar.  Down  the 
middle  of  the  guitar  there  is  a  walled  enclosure  of  the  shape  of 
a  banjo.  At  the  end  stands  a  church.  The  round  drum  is  the 
mount,  which  has  four  circles,  the  topmost  being  some  six 
paces  across. 

The  carriage  containing  the  Deemster  and  the  Clerk  of  the 
Polls  had  drawn  up  at  the  west  gate  of  the  church,  and  a  po- 
liceman had  opened  the  door.  There  came  the  sound  of  sing- 
ing from  the  porch. 

''  A  quarter  late,"  said  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  consulting  his 
watch.     "  Shall  we  go  in,  your  Honor  ?  " 

"  Let  us  take  a  turn  round  the  fair  instead,"  said  Philip. 

The  cai'riage  door  was  shut  back,  and  they  began  to  move 
over  the  green.  The  open  part  of  it  was  covered  with  booths, 
barrows,  stands,  and  show -tents.  There  were  cheap  jacks  with 
shoddy  watches,  phrenologists  with  two  chairs,  fat  women, 
dwarfs,  wandering  minstrels,  itinerant  hawkers  of  toflFee  in 
tin  hat-boxes,  and  other  shiny  and  slimy  creatures  with  the  air 
and  grease  of  the  towns.  There  were  a  few  oxen  and  horses 
also,  tethered  and  lanketted,  and  kicking  up  the  dust  under 
the  dry  turf. 

The  crowd  was  dense  already,  and  increasing  at  every  mo- 
ment. As  the  brakes  arrived,  they  drove  up  with  a  swing  that 
sent  the  people  surging  on  either  side.  Some  brought  well- 
behaved  visitors,  others  brought  an  eruption  of  ruffians. 

Down  the  neck  of  the  enclosure,  and  round  the  circular 
end  of  it,  stood  a  regiment  of  soldiers  with  rifles  and  bayonets. 
The  steps  to  the  mount  were  laid  down  with  rushes.  Two 
armchairs  were  on  the  top,  under  a  canopy  hung  from  a  flag- 


MAN    AND    MAN.  ;>7J) 

stiifT  tliat  stood  ill  tlic  centiv.  These  diairs  wore  still  oinpty, 
and  tbe  mount  and  its  ai)i)roachcs  were  kept  clear. 

Tiie  sun  was  overhead,  tlic  heat  was  pfreat,  the  (xlour  wa.s 
oppressive.  Now  and  a<j:ain  the  sound  of  the  service  within 
the  church  niin«jrled  with  tlie  crack  of  the  toy  ritle-ranp's  and 
the  jabher  of  the  cheap  jacks.  At  len<jftli  there  was  another 
sound — a  more  portentous  sound — the  sound  of  hands  playin*^ 
in  the  distance.  It  came  from  both  soutli  and  west,  from  the 
direction  of  Peel,  and  from  that  of  Port  St.  Mary. 

"They're  coming,"  said  the  Clerk,  and  Philip's  face,  when 
he  turned  his  head  to  listen,  quivered  and  grew  yet  more  ])al('. 

As  the  bands  approached  they  ceased  to  play.  Presently  a 
vast  proces.sion  of  men  from  the  west  came  up  in  silence  to  the 
skirt  of  the  hill,  and  turned  olf  m  the  direction  from  v.hich 
the  men  from  the  south  were  seen  to  be  coming.  They  were 
in  jerseys  and  sea-boots,  marching  four  deep,  and  carrying 
nothing  in  their  brawny  hands.  One  stalwart  fellow  walked 
firmly  at  the  head  of  them.     It  was  Pete, 

Philip  could  support  the  strain  no  longer.  He  got  out  of 
the  carriage.  The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  got  out  also,  and  fol- 
lowed him  as  he  walked  with  wavering,  irregular  steps. 

Under  a  great  tree  at  the  junction  of  three  roads,  the  two 
companies  of  fishermen  met  and  fell  into  a  general  throng. 
There  was  a  low  wall  around  the  tree-trunk,  and,  standing  on 
this,  Pete's  head  was  clear  above  the  rest. 

"Boys,"  he  was  saying,  "there's  three  hundred  armed  sol- 
diers on  the  hill  yonder,  with  twenty  rounds  of  ball-cartridge 
apiece.  You're  going  to  the  Coort  because  you've  a  right  to 
go.  You're  going  up  peaceable,  and,  when  you're  getting 
there,  you're  going  to  mix  among  the  soldiers,  three  to  every 
man,  two  on  either  side  and  one  behind.  Then  your  siH)k«'s- 
men  are  going  to  spake  out  your  complaint.  If  they're  lis- 
tened to,  you're  wanting  no  ])etter.  But  if  they'i*e  not,  and  if 
the  word  is  given  to  fire  on  them,  then,  l)efore  there's  time  to 
do  it,  you're  going  to  stretcli  every  man  of  the  thi-ee  hundred 
on  his  back  and  take  his  weajwn.  Don't  hurt  the  .soldiers — 
the  poor  soldiers  are  only  doing  what  they're  tould.  But  don't 
let  the  soldiei's  hurt  you  neither.  You're?  going  there  for  jus- 
tice. You're  not  going  there  to  fight.  But  if  anyb<»dy  figlits 
you,  let  him  never  forget  the  day  he  done  it.  lireak  up  evei-y 
taffy  stand  in  the  fair,  if  you  can't  lind  auytliing  Ix-tter.     And 

2r, 


380  THE   MANXMAN. 

if  blood  is  shed,  lave  the  man  that  orders  it  to  me.  And  now 
go  up,  boys,  like  men  and  like  Manxmen.'' 

There  was  no  cheering,  no  shouting,  no  clapping  of  hands. 
Only  broken  exclamations  and  a  sort  of  confused  murmur. 

''Come,"  whispered  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  putting  his 
hand  through  Philip's  quivering  arm.  "  Little  does  the  jDoor 
devil  think  that,  if  blood  is  shed,  he.  will  be  the  fii'st  to  fall." 

"  God  in  heaven  ! ''  muttered  Pliilip. 


XI. 

The  crowd  on  Tynwald  had  now  gathered  thick  down  the 
neck  of  the  enclosure  and  dense  round  the  mount.  To  the 
strains  of  the  National  Anthem,  played  by  the  band  of  the 
regiment,  the  Governor  had  come  out  of  the  church.  He  was 
in  cocked  hat  and  with  sword,  and  the  sword  of  state  was  car- 
ried upright  before  him.  With  his  Ke\"s,  Council,  and  clergy, 
he  walked  to  the  hill-top.  There  he  took  one  of  the  two  chairs 
under  the  canopj' ;  the  othei^  was  taken  by  the  Bishop  in  his 
lawn.  Their  followers  came  behind,  and  broke  up  on  the  hill 
into  an  indiscriminate  mass.  A  number  of  ladies  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  space  on  the  topmost  round.  They  stood  behind 
the  chairs,  with  their  parasols  still  open. 

There  are  men  that  the  densest  crowd  will  part  and  make 
way  for.  The  crowd  had  parted  and  made  way  for  Philip. 
As  the  court  was  being  "  fenced,"  he  appeared  with  his  com- 
panion at  the  foot  of  the  mount.  There  he  was  recognised  by 
many,  but  he  scarcely  answered  their  salutations.  The  Gov- 
ernor made  a  deferential  bow,  smiled,  and  beckoned  to  him  to 
come  up  to  his  side.  He  went  up  slowly,  pausing  at  every 
other  step,  like  a  man  who  was  in  doubt  if  he  ought  to  go 
higher.  At  length  he  stood  at  the  Governor's  right  hand, 
with  all  eyes  upon  him,  for  the  favourite  of  the  great  is 
favoured.  He  was  then  the  highest  figure  on  the  mount,  the 
Governor  and  the  Bishop  being  seated.  The  people  could  see 
him  from  end  to  side  of  the  Tynwald,  and  he  could  see  the 
people  as  they  stood  closely  packed  on  the  green  below. 

The  business  of  the  Court  began.  It  was  that  of  promul- 
gating the  laws.  Philip's  senior  colleague,  the  old  Deemster 
of  the  happy  face,  read  the  titles  of  the  laws  in  English. 


MAN   AND   MAN.  3gl 

Then  tlic  Coroner  of  the  premier  slieadiiijj:  beprun  to  recite  tlie 
same  titles  in  Manx.  Ni)body  luuirtl  then):  luirdly  anylnxl^- 
listened.  The  ladies  on  the  mount  chatted  ainon^if  themselves, 
the  Keys  and  tlie  clerpry  intermin«:led  and  talked,  the  ofhcials 
of  the  Council  looked  at  the  crowd,  and  tlw  crowd  itself,  hnv- 
in<^  nothin<]:  to  hear,  no  more  to  see,  indiHerent  to  doin^rs  they 
could  not  undei-staud,  resumed  their  anm.semcnts  amon«^  the 
frivolities  of  the  fair. 

There  were  three  persons  in  that  assembly  of  fifteen  thou- 
sand who  were  following  the  coui-«e  of  events  with  feverish 
interest.  The  first  of  these  was  the  Governor,  whose  restless 
eyes  were  rolling  from  side  to  side  with  almost  savage  light  ; 
the  second  was  the  captain  of  the  regiment,  who  was  watch- 
ing the  Governor's  face  for  a  signal  ;  the  third  was  Philip, 
who  w^as  looking  down  at  the  crowd  and  seeing  something 
that  had  meaning  for  himself  alone. 

The  fishermen  came  up  quietly,  three  thousand  strong. 
Half  a  hundred  of  them  lounged  around  the  magazine— the 
ammunition  was  at  their  command.  The  rest  ])ushed,  edged, 
and  elbowed  their  way  through  the  people  until  they  came  to 
the  line  of  the  guard.  Wherever  there  was  a  red  coat,  Ix'hind 
it  there  were  three  jerseys  and  stocking-caps. 

Philip  saw^  it  all  from  his  elevation  on  the  mount.  His 
face  was  deadly  pale,  his  eyelids  wavered,  his  lower  lip  trem- 
bled, his  hand  twitched  ;  w^hen  he  was  spoken  to,  he  hardly 
answered  ;  he  was  like  a  man  holding  counsel  with  himself, 
and  half  in  fear  that  everj^body  could  icail  his  hidden 
thoughts.  He  was  in  the  last  throes  of  his  temptation.  The 
decisive  moment  was  near.  It  was  heavy  with  the  fate  of  his 
after  life.  He  thought  of  Pete  and  the  torture  of  his  com- 
pany ;  of  Kate  and  the  unending  misery  of  her  existence  ;  of 
himself  and  the  deep  duplicity  to  which  he  was  committed. 
From  all  this  he  could  be  freed  for  ever — by  what  ?  By  doing 
nothing,  having  already  done  his  duty  ?  Only  let  him  com- 
mand him.self,  and  then — relief  from  an  existence  enthralled 
by  torment — from  constant  alarm  and  watchfulness— peace  — 
sleep — love — Kate  ! 

Somebody  was  speaking  to  him  over  his  shoulder.  It  was 
nothing— only  the  quip  of  a  witty  fellow,  descendant  of  a 
Spanish  freebooter.  Ladies  caught  his  eye,  smiled  and  bowed 
to  him.     A  little  man,  whose  swarthv  face  showed   Afrii-an 


382  THE  MANXMAN. 

blood,  reached  up  and  quoted  somethmg'  about  the  bounds  of 
freedom  wide  and  wider. 

The  Coroner  had.  finished,  the  proceedings  were  at  an  end 
— there  was  a  movement — something  had  happened — the  Gov- 
ernor had  half  risen  from  his  chair.  Twelve  men  in  sea- 
boots  and  blue  jerseys  had  x)assed  the  line  of  the  guard,  and 
were  standing  midway  across  the  steps  of  the  mount.  One  of 
them  was  beginning  to  speak.     It  was  Pete. 

"  Governor,"  he  said  ;  but  the  captain  of  the  regiment  was 
abreast  of  him  in  a  moment,  and  a  scoi^e  of  the  soldiers  w^ere 
about  his  companions  at  the  next  breath.  The  fishermen 
stood  their  ground  like  a  wall,  and  the  soldiers  fell  back. 
There  was  hardly  any  scuffle. 

"  Governor,"  said  Pete  again,  touching  his  cap. 

The  Governor  was  twisting  in  his  seat.  Looking  first  at 
Pete,  and  then  at  the  captain,  he  was  in  the  act  of  lifting  his 
hand  when  suddenly  it  was  held  by  another  hand  at  his  side, 
and  a  low  voice  whispered  at  his  ear,  "  No,  sir  ;  for  God's 
sake,  no  ! " 

It  was  Philip.  The  Governor  looked  at  him  with  amaze- 
ment.    "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Philij),  still  whispering  over  him  hotly  and 
impetuously,  ''  that  there's  only  one  way  back  to  Government 
House,  but  if  you  lift  your  hand  it  will  be  one  too  many  ;  I 
mean  that  if  blood  is  shed  you'll  never  live  to  leave  this 
mount ;  I  mean  that  your  three  hundred  soldiers  are  only  as 
three  hundred  rabbits  in  the  claws  of  three  thousand  crows." 

At  the  next  instant  he  had  left  the  Governor,  and  was  face 
to  face  with  the  fishermen. 

"Fishermen,"  he  cried,  lifting  both  hands  before  him, 
"  let  there  be  no  trouble  here  to-day,  no  riot,  for  God's  sake, 
no  bloodshed.  Listen  to  me.  I  am  the  grandson  of  a  fisher- 
man ;  I  have  been  a  fisherman  myself  ;  I  love  the  fishermen. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  will  stand  by  you.  Your  rights  shall  be 
my  rights,  your  sins  my  sins,  and  Avhere  you  go  I  will  go 
too." 

Then,  swinging  back  to  the  Governor,  he  bowed  low,  and 
said  in  a  deferential  voice — 

"  Your  Excellency,  these  men  mean  no  harm ;  they  wish 
to  speak  to  you  ;  they  have  a  petition  to  make  ;  they  will  be 
loyal  and  peaceable." 


MAN   AND   MAN.  383 

But  the  Governor,  liaving-  recovered  from  liis  first  fear, 
was  now  in  a  tiame  of  an«^er. 

''No,"  be  said,  with  the  accent  of  authf)rity  ;  *'this  is  no 
time  and  no  phice  for  petitions." 

"  Forgive  me,  your  Excellency,"*  said  Philij),  with  a 
deeper  bow;  "this  is  the  time  of  all  times,  the  place  of  all 
places/' 

There  had  been  a  f^eneral  surg^ing  of  the  Keys  and  cler^jy 
towards  the  steps,  and  now  one  of  them  cried  out  of  their 
group,  "  Is  Tynwald  Court  to  be  turned  into  a  bear-garden  ? " 
And  another  said  in  a  cynical  voice,  *'  Perhaps  your  Excel- 
lency has  taken  somebody  else's  seat." 

Philip  raised  himself  to  his  full  height,  and  answered,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  speakers,  ''  We  are  free-born  men  on  this 
island,  your  Excellency.  We  did  not  come  to  Tynwald  to 
learn  order  from  the  grandson  of  a  Spanish  pirate,  or  freedom 
from  the  son  of  a  black  chief." 

"  Hould  hard,  boys  !"  cried  Pete,  lifting  one  hand  against 
his  followers,  as  if  to  keep  thetn  quiet.  He  was  boiling  with 
a  desu'e  to  shout  till  his  throat  should  crack. 

The  Governor  had  exchanged  rapid  looks  and  low  whis- 
pei-s  with  the  captain.  He  saw  that  he  was  outwitted,  that  ho 
was  helpless,  that  he  was  even  in  pei'sonal  danger.  The  cap- 
tain was  biting  his  lipa  with  vexation  that  he  had  not  reckoned 
more  seriously  with  this  rising — that  he  had  not  drawn  uj)  his 
men  in  column. 

"  Your  Excellency  will  hear  the  fishermen  ? "  said 
Philip. 

'•  No,  no,  no,"  said  the  Governor.  He  was  at  least  a  bravo 
man,  if  a  vain  and  foolish  one. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then,  standing  erect, 
and  making  an  effort  to  control  liimself.  Philip  said,  "May  it 
please  j'our  Excellency,  you  fill  a  proud  ])ositi(m  here  ;  you 
are  the  ruler  of  tins  island  under  j'our  sovereign  lady  our 
Queen.  But  we,  your  subjects,  your  servants,  are  in  a  prouder 
position  still.  We  arc  Manxmen.  This  is  the  Court  of  our 
country." 

"Hould  hard,"  cried  Pete  again. 

"For  a  thousand  years  men  witli  our  blood  and  our  names 
have  stood  on  this  hill  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  ])eo])le.  and  to 
do  justice  between  man  and  miin. 


384  THE  MANXMAN. 

meant  for.  If  it  has  lost  that  meaning,  root  it  up — it  is  a  show 
and  a  sham. " 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Pete  ;  he  could  hold  himself  in  no  longer, 
and  his  word  was  taken  up  with  a  shout,  both  on  the  hill  and 
on  the  green  beneath. 

Philip's  voice  had  risen  to  a  shrill  cry,  but  it  was  low  and 
meek  as  he  added,  bowing  yet  lower  while  he  sj^oke — 

"  Your  Excellency  will  hear  the  fishermen  ?  " 

The  Governor  rolled  in  his  seat.  ''  Go  on,"  he  said  impa- 
tiently. 

The  men  made  their  petition.  Three  or  four  of  them  spoke 
briefly  and  to  the  point.  They  had  had  harbours,  their 
fathers'  harbours,  which  had  been  freed  to  them  forty  years 
before  ;  don't  ask  them  to  pay  harbour  dues  until  proper  har- 
bours were  provided. 

The  Governor  gave  his  promise.  Then  he  rose,  the  band 
struck  up  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  and  the  Legislature  filed 
back  to  the  chapel. 

Philip  went  with  them.  Eehad  fought  a  great  battle,  and 
he  had  prevailed.  Through  purging  fires  the  real  man  had 
emerged,  but  he  had  paid  the  price  of  his  victory.  His  eye 
burned  like  live  cosl,  his  cheek-bones  seemed  to  have  up- 
heaved. He  walked  alone  ;  his  ancient  colleague  had  stepped 
ahead  of  him.  But  now  and  again,  as  he  passed  down  the 
long  path  to  the  church-door,  fisherm^en  and  farmers  pushed 
between  the  rifles  of  the  guards,  and  said  in  husky  voices, 
"  Let  me  shake  you  by  the  hand,  Dempster." 

The  scene  was  repeated  with  added  emotion  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  when,  the  court  being  adjourned  and  the  Govr 
ernor  gone  in  ominous  silence,  Philip  came  out,  white  and 
smiling,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  old  master,  the  Clerk 
of  the  Rolls.  He  could  scarcely  tear  himself  through  the 
thick-set  hedge  of  people  that  lined  the  path  to  the  gate.  As 
he  got  into  the  carriage  his  smile  disappeared.  Sinking  into 
the  seat,  he  buried  himself  in  •  the  corner  and  dropped  his 
head  on  his  breast.     The  people  began  to  cheer. 

"  Drive  on,"  he  cried. 

The  cheering  became  loud. 

"  Drive,  drive,"  he  cried. 

The  people  cheered  yet  louder.  They  thought  that  they 
had  seen  a  grand  triumph  that  day — a  man  triumphing  over 


MAN    AND   MAN.  3g5 

tho  Governor.  But  there  had  heen  a  ^niiuh^r  (riiiinpli  wliich 
they  iiad  uot  seen — a  num  ti-iuniphin<3^  over  himself.  Only 
one  saw  that,  and  it  Wiis  God. 


XII. 

Pete  seemed  to  ])e  beside  liimself.  He  laupfhed  until  he 
cried  ;  he  eried  until  he  lau<^hed.  His  resonant  voiee  rang 
out  everywhere. 

"  Hear  him  ?  My  g-ough,  it  was  like  a  bupfle  spaking. 
There's  nobody  can  spake  but  himself.  When  the  others  arc 
toot-tooting,  it's  just  '  Polly,  put  the  kettle  on  '  (mimicking  a 
mincing  treble).  See  the  lil  Pulfin  on  his  tin-one  of  turf 
there  ?  Looked  as  if  Quid  Nick  had  been  thrashing  pea-s  on 
his  face  for  a  week." 

Pete's  enthusiasm  rose  to  frenzy,  and  he  began  to  sweep 
through  the  fair,  bemoaning  his  country  and  pouring  mouth- 
f  uls  of  anathema  on  his  countrymen. 

^'Mannin  veg  villish  (sweet  little  Isle  of  Man),  with  your 
English  Governors  and  your  Englisli  Bishops,  and  bf)ys  of 
your  own  worth  ten  of  them.  Manninec  graUiagh  (beloved 
Manxmen),  you're  driving  them  away  to  be  Bishops  for  others 
and  Governors  abroad — and  yourselves  going  to  the  dogs  and 
the  divil,  and  d you." 

Pete's  prophetic  mood  dropped  to  a  jovial  one.  He  bought 
the  remaining  stock-in-trade  of  an  itinei'ant  toffee-seller,  and 
hammered  the  lid  of  the  tin  hat-box  to  beat  up  the  children. 
They  followed  him  like  hares  hopping  in  the  snow  :  and  he 
distributed  his  bounty  in  inverse  relation  to  size,  a  short  stick 
to  a  big  lad,  a  long  stick  to  a  little  one,  and  two  .sticks  to  a 
gii'l.  The  results  were  an  infantile  war.  Here,  a  damsel  of 
ton  squaring  her  lists  to  fight  a  hulking  fellow  of  twelve  for 
her  sister  of  six  ;  and  there,  a  mother  wiping  the  eyes  of  her 
boy  of  five,  and  whispering  *'  Hush,  bogb  ;  hiisli  !  You  shall 
have  the  bladder  when  we  kill  the  j)ig." 

Pete  began  to  drink.  "How  do,  Faddy?  Taking  joy  of 
you,  Juan.  Are  you  in  life.  Thorn  I  Half  a  gla.ss  of  rum  will 
do  no  harm,  boys.  Not  the  drinl:  at  all— just  the  good  com- 
pany, you  know." 

He  hailed  the  women  also,  but  they  were  less  willing  to  be 


3S6  THE  MANXMAN. 

treated.  "  I'd  have  more  respect  for  my  quarterly  ticket,  f:ir," 
said  Betsy — she  was  a  Primitive,  with  her  husband  on  tlie 
"Planbeg."  "There's  a  hole  in  your  pocket,  Capt'n  ;  stop  it 
up  with  your  fist,  man,"  said  Liza— she  was  a  gombeen  woman, 
and  when  she  got  a  penny  in  her  hand  it  was  a  prisoner  for 
life.  "  Chut!  w^oman,"  said  Pete,  "  what's  the  good  book  say- 
ing ?  '  Riches  have  wings  ; '  let  the  birds  fly  then,"  and  off 
he  went,  reeling  and  tottering,  and  laughing  his  formidable 
laugh. 

Pete  grew  merry.  Rooting  up  the  remains  of  the  fisher- 
men's band,  he  hired  them  to  accompany  him  through  the 
fair.  They  were  three  little  musicians,  now  exceedingly  drunk, 
and  their  duty  was  to  play  "  Hail,  Isle  of  Man,"  as  he  went 
swaggering  along  in  front  of  them. 

"  Hail,  Isle  of  Man, 
Swate  ocean  Ian', 

I  love  thy  sea-girt  border." 

"Playup,  Jaclde." 

"  The  barley  sown, 
Potatoes  down, 

We'll  get  our  boats  in  order." 

Thus  he  forged  through  the  fair,  capering,  laughing,  shout- 
ing protests  over  his  shoulder  when  the  tipsy  music  failed, 
pretending  to  be  very  drunk,  trying  to  show  that  he  was  car- 
rying on,  that  he  was  going  it,  that  he  hadn't  a  second  thought, 
but  watching  everything  for  all  that,  studying  every  face,  and 
listening  to  the  talk  of  everybody. 

"Whips  of  money  at  him,  Liza— whips  of  it— millions, 
they're  saying." — ''He's  spending  it  like  flitters  then.  The 
Manx  chaps  isn't  fit  for  fortunes— no,  they  aren't.  I  wonder 
in  the  world  what  sort  of  wife  there's  at  him.  /  don't  'low 
my  husband  the  purse.  Three  ha'pence  is  enough  to  be  giv- 
ing any  man  at  once." — "Wife,  you're  saying?  Don't  you 
know,  woman  ?  "     Then  some  whispering. 

"Bass,  boy — more  bass,  I  tell  thee." 

"  We  then  sought  nex' 
The  soothing  sex, 

Our  swatearts  at  Port  Erin." 


MAN    AND    MAN.  3g7 

'•  Who  is  tlio  nuin  at  all  .■'"—"Why,  (\ii)('m  C<>uilli:im  from 
Kinibrrley.''— "'Deed,  man  !  Him  that  man-ied  with  some  of 
the  C:e.s;ir  Glenmooar's  one.s  ?" — ';  She'.s  left  him,  thou;:!!,  and 
g-one  otf  with  a  wastrel." — "You  don't  .say  ?" — *'Well,  I  .saw 
the  young  woman  myself " 

"At  (^)uig,<:in's  lliiU 
Thcre'.s  enough  for  all. 
Good  beer,  and  all  things  jiropor." 

"  Hould,  boys  !  " 

Pete  had  di-awn  up  suddenly,  and  stopped  his  musicians 
with  a  sweep  of  the  arm. 

"  Were  you  spakiug,  Mr.  Corteen  ? " 

''  Nothing,  Capt'n.  No  need  to  stare  at  all.  I  was  only 
saying  I  was  at  tlie  ciimp-meeting  at  Sulby,  and  I  saw " 

"Go  on,  Jackie." 

"  A  pleasant  place, 
Willi  be<Is  of  ai.se. 

When  we  are  done  our  supper.'* 

The  unliappy  man  was  deceiving  himself  at  lea.st  as  much 
as  anybody  else.  After  looking  for  the  light  of  intelligence 
in  every  face,  waiting  for  a  word,  watching  for  a  glance,  ex- 
pecting every  moment  that  .some  one  from  south  or  north,  or 
east  or  we.st,  would  say,  "  I've  seen  her  ;"  jet,  covering  up  the 
burning  coal  of  his  anxiety  with  the  ashes  of  mock  merriment, 
he  tried  to  persuade  hinivself  that  Kate  was  not  on  the  i.sland 
if  nobody  at  Tynwald  had  .seen  her  ;  that  he  had  told  tlie 
truth  unwittingly,  and  that  he  was  as  happy  as  tlic  day  was 
long. 

XTTI. 

A  MAN  in  a  gig  come  driving  a  long-hornod  cow  in  fi^ont  of 
him.  Driver,  hoi*se.  gig.  and  cow  were  like  aniiiiat(Ml  shapes 
of  dust,  but  Pete  recognised  them. 

"Is  it  yourself,  Ccesar  ?  So  you're  fc^r  .selling  ould  Ilor- 
ney?" 

"Grieved  in  my  heart  I  am  to  do  it.  sir.  M.-ny  a  gtuHl 
glass  of  milk  she  has  given  to  me  and  mine,"  and  C':fs:ir  v.as 
ready  to  weep. 


3S8  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Going  falling  in  fits,  isn't  she,  Caesar  ? " 

"  Hush,  man  !  hush,  man  I "  said  Caesar,  looking  about. 
"A  good  cow,  very;  but  down  twice  since  I  left  home  this 
morning." 

"  I'd  give  a  bad  sixpence  to  see  Caesar  selling  that  cow-," 
thought  Pete. 

Three  men  were  bargaining  over  a  horse.  Two  were  selling, 
the  third  (it  was  Black  Tom)  was  buying. 

"  Rising  fi.ve  yeai*s,  sir.  Sired  by  Mahomet.  Oh,  I've  got 
the  papers  to  prove  it,"  said  one  of  the  two. 

'^  What,  man  ?  Five  ?  "  shouted  Black  Tom  down  the 
horse's  opeji  mouth.  "  She'll  never  see  eight  the  longest  day 
she  lives." 

"  No  use  decaiving  the  man,"  said  the  other  dealer,  speak- 
ing in  Manx.     ''  She's  sixteen — 'low  she's  nine,  anyway." 

''  Fair  play,  boys  ;  spake  English  before  a  poor  fellow," 
said  Black  Tom,  with  a  snort. 

"  This  brother  of  mine  'lows  she's  seven,"  said  the  fi.rst  of 
the  two. 

"  You  thundering  liar,"  said  Black  Tom  in  Manx.  "  He 
says  she's  sixteen. " 

"  Dealing  ponies  then  ? "  asked  Pete. 

"Anything,  sir  ;  anything.  Buying  for  farmers  up  Lonan 
way,"  said  Black  Tom. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Pete  ;  "  here's  Caesar  with  a  long-horned 
cow." 

They  found  the  good  man  tethering  a  w-hite,  long-horned 
cow  to  the  wheel  of  the  tipped-up  gig. 

'•  How  do,  Caesar  ?  And  how  much  for  the  long-horn  ?  " 
said  Black  Tom. 

"  Aw,  look  at  the  base  (beast),  Mr.  QuiUiam.  Examine  her 
for  yourself,"  said  Caesar. 

"  Middling  fair  ewer,  good  quarter,  five  calves— is  it  five, 
CjBsar  ?"  said  Black  Tom,  holding  one  of  the  long  horns. 

"  Three,  sir,  and  calving  again  for  February." 

'''  No  milk  fever  ?  No  ?  Kicks  a  bit  at  milking  ?  Never  ? 
Fits  ?  Ever  had  fits,  Caesar  ?  "  opening  wide  one  of  the  cow's 
eyes. 

"  Have  you  known  me  these  years  for  a  dacent  man,  Mr. 
Quilliam "  began  Caesar  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Well,  what's  the  figure  ?  " 


MAN  AND  MAX.  359 

"Fourteen  pound,  sir  1  and  she'ii  take  tlic  road  bofoi*e  Til 
go  ])onie  wiih  a  pound  less  !  " 

"  Fourteen— what  i  Ten  ;  Til  give  you  ten— not  a  penny 
more." 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Quilliaui,"  said  Caesar.  Then,  as  if 
l\v  an  aftertliought,  ''  You're  an  ould  friend  of  mine,  Thomas; 
a  very  ould  friend,  Tom — I'll  split  you  the  dift" ranee." 

" Break  a  straw  on  it,"  said  Blaek  Tom;  and  the  transaction 
was  complete. 

"  I've  had  a  clane  strike  here— the  base  is  worth  fifteen," 
chuckled  Black  Tom  in  Pete's  ear  as  he  drove  the  cow  in  to  a 
shed  beyond. 

"  I  must  be  buying  another  cow  in  place  of  poor  ould  Hor- 
uey,"  whispered  Cajsar  as  he  dived  into  the  cattle  stand. 

"  Strike  up,  Jackie,"  shouted  Pete. 

"  West  of  tlio  mine, 
The  day  being  fine. 

The  tide  against  us  veering." 

Ten  minutes  later  Pete  heard  a  fearful  clamour,  which 
drowned  the  noise  that  he  himself  was  making.  Within  tlie 
shed  the  confusion  of  tongues  was  terrific. 

''What's  this  at  all  ?"  he  asked,  crushing  through  with  an 
innocent  face. 

"  The  man's  cow  has  fits,"  cried  Black  Tom.  "  I'll  have  my 
money  back.  The  ould  psalm-singing  Tommy  Noddy  I  did  he 
think  he  was  lifting  the  collection  ?  My  money  !  My  twelve 
goolden  pounds  I " 

If  Black  Tom  had  not  been  as  bald  as  a  bladder,  he  would 
have  torn  his  hair  in  his  mortification.  But  Pete  pacified 
him. 

"  Caesar  is  looking  for  another  cow — sell  him  his  own  back 
again.  Impozz'ble  ?  Who  says  it's  impozz'ble  ?  Cut  off  her 
long  horns,  and  he'll  never  be  knowing  her  from  her  graiul- 
mother, " 

Then  Pete  made  up  to  Ciesar  and  said,  "Tom's  got  a  mailie 
(hornless)  cow  to  sell,  and  it's  the  very  thing  you're  wanting." 

•'  Is  she  a  good  mailie  ? "  asked  Caesar. 

"Ten  quarts  either  end  of  the  day,  Caisar,  and  fifteen 
pounds  of  butter  a  week,"  said  Pete. 

"  Where's  the  base,  sir  ?  "  said  Caesar. 


390  THE  MANXMAN. 

They  met  Black  Tom  leading  a  hornless,  white  cow  from 
the  shed  to  the  green. 

''  Are  you  coming  together,  Peter  ? "  he  said  cheerfully. 

Caesar  eyed  the  cow  doubtfully  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said  briskly,  "  What's  the  price  of  the  mailie,  Mr.  Quilliam  ? " 

"  Aw,  look  at  the  base  first,  Mr.  Cregeen.  Examine  her 
for  yourself,  sir." 

''  Yes — yes — well,  yes ;  a  middling  good  base  enough.  Four 
calves,  Thomas  ? " 

"  Two,  sir,  and  calves  again  for  January.  Twenty -four 
quarts  of  new  milk  every  day  of  life,  and  butter  fit  to  burst 
the  churn  for  you." 

"  No  fever  at  all  ?    No  fits  ?    No  ?  " 

"Aw,  have  you  known  me  these  teens  of  years,  Mr.  Cre- 
geen  " 

"  Well,  what  d'ye  say — eleven  pounds  for  the  cow,  Tom  !  " 

"Thirteen,  Csesar;  and  if  you  warn  an  ould  friend " 

"Ilould  your  hand,  Mr.  Quilliam;  I'm  not  a  man  when 
I've  got  a  bargain.  .  .  .  Manx  notes  or  the  dust,  Thomas  ? 
Goold?  Here  you  are,  then— one — two— three — four  .  .  ." 
(giving  the  cow  another  searching  glance  across  his  shoulder). 
"  It's  wonderful,  though,  the  straight  she's  like  ould  Horney 
.  .  .  five — six — seven  ...  in  colour  and  size,  I  mane  .  .  . 
eight — nine — ten  .  .  .  an<l  if  she  warn  a  mailie  cow,  now 
.  .  .  eleven — twelve — "  (the  money  hanging  from  his  thumb). 
"  Will  that  be  enough,  Mr.  Quilliam  ?  No  ?  Half  a  one, 
then?    Aw,  you're  hard,  Tom  .  .  .  thirteen." 

Having  paid  the  last  pound,  Caesar  stood  a  moment  con- 
templating his  purchase,  and  then  said  doubtfully,  "  Well,  if 
I   hadn't  .  .  .  Grannie   will    be    saying  it's  the    same  base 

back "  (the  cow  began  to  reel).     "  Yes,  and  it— no,  surely— 

a  mailie  for  all "  (the  cow  fell).     ''It's  got  the  same  fits, 

anyway,"  cried  Caesar;  and  then  he  rushed  to  the  cow's  head. 
"  It  is  the  same  base.  The  horns  are  going  cutting  off  at  her. 
My  money  back  !  Give  me  my  money  back — my  thirteen 
yellow  sovereigns — the  sweat  of  my  brow  !  "  he  cried. 

"Aw,  no,"  said  Black  Tom.  "There's  no  money  giving 
back  at  all.  If  the  cow  was  good  enough  for  you  to  sell,  she's 
good  enough  for  you  to  buy,"  and  he  turned  on  his  heel  with 
a  laugh  of  triumph. 

Caesar  was  choking  with  vexation. 


MAX    AND   MAN.  391 

"Never  miiul,  sir,"  said  Pete.  "  If  Tom  lias  taken  a  mane 
aclvaut:ig"e  of  you,  it'll  Ix'  all  set  ri^^ht  at  tlie  Ju(]<,'-MU'nl.  You've 
that  satisfaction,  anyway." 

"Have  I  ^  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Ciesar  from  hetwren  his 
teeth.  "The  man's  clever.  He'll  *;et  himself  converted  he- 
fore  he  comes  to  die,  and  then  there'll  not  he  a  word  about 
cutting  the  horns  otf  my  cow," 

"Strike  up,  Jackie,"  shouted  Pete. 

'•  Hail,  Isle  of  Man, 
Swate  ocean  Ian', 

1  love  thy  sea-girt  border." 


XIV. 

The  sky-  became  overcast,  rain  befi^an  to  fall,  and  there  was 
a  rusli  for  the  carts.  In  half  an  hour  Tynwald  Hill  was 
empty,  and  the  people  were  splashin^^  oif  on  every  side  like 
the  big  drops  of  rain  that  were  pelting  down. 

Pete  hired  a  brake  that  w^as  going  back  to  the  north,  and 
gathered  up  his  friends  from  Ramsey.  When  these  were 
seated,  there  was  a  rush  of  helpless  and  abandoned  ones  who 
were  going  in  the  same  direction — young  motion's  with  chil- 
dren, old  men  and  old  ivomen.  Pete  hauled  them  up  till  the 
seats  and  the  floor  were  choked,  and  the  brake  could  hold  no 
more.  He  got  small  thanks.  "Such  crushing  and  scrooging! 
I  declare  my  black  merino  frock,  that  I've  only  had  on  once, 
will  be  teetotal  spoilt." — "  If  they  don't  start  soon  I'll  Ix?  taking 
the  neuralgy  dreadful." 

They  got  started  at  length,  and,  at  tlie  tail  of  a  line  of  stilf 
carts,  they  went  rattling  over  the  mountain-road.  The  hare- 
bells nodded  their  washed  faces  from  the  hedge,  and  the  talk 
was  brisk  and  cheerful. 

"  Our  Thom's  sowl  a  hafer,  and  got  a  good  price."—"  What 
for  didn't  you  buy  the  mare  of  Corlett  Beldroma,  Juan  ?" — 
"Did  I  want  to  be  killed  as  dead  as  a  herring  ? "— "  Kicks,  does 
she?  Bate  her,  man;  bate  her.  A  hoi-se  is  like  a  wouKin. 
If  you  aren't  bating  her  now  and  then '' 

They  stopped  at  every  half-way  house — it  was  always  half- 
way to  somewhere.  The  men  got  exceedingly  drunk  and  be- 
gan to  sing.     At  that  the  women  grew  very  angry. 


392  THE  MANXMAN. 

"Sakes  alive  !  you're  no  better  than  a  lot  of  Cottonies."— 
"Deed,  but  they're  worse  than  any  Cottonies,  ma'am.  Some 
excuse  for  the  like  of  them.  In  their  cotton-mills  all  the 
year,  and  nothing  at  home  but  a  piece  of  grass  the  size  of  your 
hand  in  the  backyard,  and  going  hopi^ing  on  it  like  a  lark  in 
a  cage." 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  the  mountain-path  grew 
steep  and  desolate,  the  few  houses  passed  were  empty  and 
boarded  up,  gorse  bushes  hissed  to  the  rising  breeze,  geese 
scuttled  and  screamed  across  the  untilled  land,  a  solitary  black 
crow  Hew  across  the  leaden  sky,  and  on  the  sea  outside  a  tall 
pillar  of  smoke  went  stalking  on  and  on,  where  the  pleasure- 
steamer  carried  her  freight  of  tourists  round  the  island.  Then 
songs  gave  way  to  sighs,  some  of  the  men  began  to  pick  quar- 
rels, and  some  to  break  into  tits  of  drunken  sobbing. 

Pete  kept  them  all  up.  He  chaffed  and  laughed  and  told 
funny  stories.  Choking,  stifling,  wounded  to  the  heart  as  he 
was,  still  he  was  carrying  on,  struggling  to  convince  every- 
body and  himself  as  well,  that  nothing  was  amiss,  that  he  was 
a  jolly  fellow,  and  had  not  a  second  thought. 

He  was  glad  to  get  home,  nevertheless,  where  he  need  i)lay 
the  hypocrite  no  longer.  Going  thi'ough  Sulby,  lie  dropped 
out  of  the  brake  and  looked  in  at  the  ''Fairy."  The  house 
was  shut.  Grannie  was  sitting  up  for  Caesar,  and-  listening 
for  the  sound  of  wheels.  There  was  something  unusual  and 
mysterious  about  her.  Cruddled  over  the  fire,  she  was  smok- 
ing a  long  clay  in  little  puffs  of  blue  smoke  that  could  barely 
be  seen.  The  sweet  old  soul  in  her  troubles  had  taken  to  the 
pipe  as  a  comforter.  Pete  could  see  that  something  had  hap- 
pened since  morning,  but  she  looked  at  him  w^ith  damp  eyes, 
and  he  was  afraid  to  ask  questions.  He  began  to  talk  of  the 
great  doings  of  the  day  at  Tynwald,  then  of  Philip,  and  finally 
of  Kate,  apologising  a  little  wildly  for  the  mother  not  coming 
home  sooner  to  the  child,  but  protesting  that  she  had  sent  the 
little  one  no  end  of  presents. 

"  Presents,  bless  ye,"  he  began  rapturously 

"You  don't  ate  enough,  Pete,  'deed  you  don't,"  said 
Grannie. 

"  Ate  ?  Did  you  «ay  ate  ? "  cried  Pete.  "  If  you'd  seen  me 
at  the  fair  you'd  have  said,  'That  man's  got  the  inside  of  a 
limekiln  ! '    Aw,  no,  Grannie,  I'm  not  letting  my  jaws  travel 


MAX   AND    MAN.  393 

far.  When  I've  got  auythiug  before  lue  it's— down  same  a.s 
an  ostrieli." 

Goinsr  away  in  the  darkness,  he  lieard  Caesar  creakinj^  up 
in  the  gig  with  old  Horney,  now  old  Mailie,  diving  along  in 
front  of  him. 

Nancy  was  waiting  for  Pete  at  Elm  Cottage.  She  tiicd  to 
bustle  him  up.stairs. 

"Come,  man,  come,"  she  said;  "get  yourself  (til'  to  Ik  d 
and  ril  bring  your  clothes  down  to  the  fire." 

He  had  never  slept  in  the  bedroom  since  Kate  had  left. 
"Chut!  I've  lost  the  habit  of  beds,"  he  answered.  "Always 
used  of  the  gable  loft,  you  know,  and  the  wind  above  the 
thatch." 

Not  to  be  thought  to  behave  otherwise  than  usual,  he  went 
upstairs  that  night.     But— 

'*  Feather  beds  are  Faft, 

Pont  it  rooms  are  bonnie, 
But  ae  kiss  o'  my  dear  love 
Better's  far  than  ony." 

The  rain  was  still  falling,  the  sea  ^vas  loud,  the  mighty 
breath  of  night  was  shaking  the  walls  of  the  house  and  riot- 
ing through  the  town.  He  was  wet  and  tired,  longing  for  a 
dry  skin  and  a  warm  bed  and  rest. 

"  Yet  fain  wad  I  rise  and  rin 

If  I  tho't  1  would  meet  my  dearie." 

The  long-strained  rapture  of  faith  and  confidence  was 
breaking  down.  He  saw  it  breaking.  He  could  deceive  him- 
self no  more.  She  was  gone,  she  was  lost,  she  would  lie  on 
his  breast  no  more. 

"God  helj)  me  I  O,  Lord,  help  me,"  he  cried  in  his  cru:  lied 
and  breaking  heart. 

XV. 

When  Kate  thought  of  her  husband  after  she  had  left  him, 
it  was  not  with  any  crushing  sen.se  of  shame.  She  had  injuiTd 
him,  but  she  had  gained  nothing  by  it.  On  the  conti-ary,  she 
had  suffered,  she  had  undf-rgone  separation  from  her  child. 
To  soften  the  hard  blow  in  dieted,  .she  had  outraged  the  ten- 


394  THE  MANXMAN. 

derest  feelings  of  her  heart.  As  often  as  she  thought  of  Pete 
and  the  deep  wrong  she  had  done  him,  she  remembered  this 
sacrifice,  she  wept  over  this  separation.  Thus  she  reconciled 
herself  to  her  conduct  towards  her  husband.  If  she  had 
bought  happiness  at  the  cost  of  Pete's  sufferings,  her  remoi'se 
might  have  been  deep  ;  but  she  had  only  accepted  shame  and 
humiliation  and  the  severance  of  the  dearest  of  her  ties. 

When  she  had  said  in  the  rapture  of  passionate  confideoce 
that  if  she  possessed  Philip's  love  there  could  be  no  humilia- 
tion and  no  shame,  she  had  not  yet  dreamt  of  the  creeping 
degradation  of  a  life  in  the  dark,  under  a  false  name,  in  a 
false  connection  :  a  life  under  the  same  roof  with  Philip,  yet 
not  by  his  side,  unacknowledged,  unrecognised,  hidden  and 
suppressed.  Even  at  the  moment  of  that  avowal,  somewhere 
in  the  secret  part  of  her  heart,  where  lay  her  love  of  refine- 
ment and  her  desire  to  be  a  lady,  she  had  cherished  the  hope 
that  Philip  would  find  a  way  out  of  the  meanness  of  their 
relation,  that  she  would  come  to  live  openly  beside  him,  she 
hardly  knew  how,  and  she  did  not  care  at  what  cost  of  scan- 
dal, for  with  Philip  as  her  own  she  would  be  proud  and  happy. 

Philip  had  not  found  that  way  out,  yet  she  did  not  blame 
him.  She  had  begun  to  see  that  the  deepest  shame  of  their 
relation  was  not  hers  but  his.  Since  she  had  lived  in  Philip's 
house  the  man  in  him  had  begun  to  decay.  She  could  not 
shut  her  eyes  to  this  rapid  demoralisation,  and  she  knew  well 
that  it  was  the  consequence  of  her  presence.  The  deceptions, 
the  subterfuges,  the  mean  shifts  forced  upon  him  day  by  day, 
by  every  chance,  every  accident,  were  plunging  him  in  ever- 
deepening  degradation.  And  as  she  realised  this  a  new  fear 
possessed  her,  more  bitter  than  any  humiliation,  more  crush- 
ing than  any  shame — the  fear  that  he  would  cease  to  love  her, 
the  terror  that  he  would  come  to  hate  her,  as  he  recognised  the 
depth  to  which  she  had  dragged  him  down. 


XVI. 

Back  from  Tynwald,  Philip  was  standing  in  his  room. 
From  time  to  time  he  walked  to  the  window,  which  was  half 
open,  for  the  air  was  close  and  heavy.  A  mistj^  rain  was  fall- 
ing from  an  empty  sky,  and  the  daylight  was  beginning  to 


MAN   AND   MAN.  395 

fail.  The  tombstones  below  were  wet,  the  troos  were  <li'ip|)inpf, 
the  churchyard  wiis  desolate.  In  a  coi'iier  under  the  wall  lay 
the  angular  wooden  lid  which  is  laid  by  a  gravedigger  over  an 
open  grave.  Presently  the  iron  gates  swung  apart,  and  a  fu- 
neral company  entered.  It  consisted  of  three  pei*sons  and  an 
uncovered  deal  coffin.  One  of  the  three  was  the  sexton  of  the 
church,  another  was  the  cm'ate,  the  third  was  a  policeman. 
The  sexton  and  the  policeman  carried  tbe  cotlin  to  tlie  church- 
door,  which  the  curate  opened.  He  then  went  into  the  church, 
and  was  followed  by  the  other  two.  A  moment  later  there 
v^ere  three  strokes  of  the  church  bell.  Some  minutes  after  that 
the  funeral  company  reappeared.  It  made  for  the  open  grave 
in  the  corner  bj-  the  wall.  The  cover  was  removed,  the  coffin 
was  lowered,  the  policeman  half  lifted  his  helmet,  and  the 
sexton  put  a  careless  hand  to  his  cap.  Then  the  curate  opened 
a  book  and  closed  it  again.  The  burial  service  was  at  an  end. 
Half  an  hour  longer  the  sexton  worked  alone  in  the  drenching 
rain,  shovelling  the  earth  back  into  the  grave. 

"Some  waif,"  thought  Philip;  "some  friendless,  homeless, 
nameless  waif." 

He  went  noiselessly  up  the  stairs  to  the  floor  above,  slink- 
ing through  the  house  like  a  shadow.  At  a  door  above  his 
own  he  knocked  with  a  heavy  hand,  and  a  woman's  voice 
answered  him  from  within — 

"  Is  any  one  there  ? " 

"  It  is  I,"  he  said.     "  I  am  coming  to  see  you." 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  slipped  into  the  room.  It 
was  a  room  like  his  own  at  all  points,  only  lower  in  the  ceil- 
ing, and  containing  a  bed.  A  woman  was  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  window,  as  if  she  had  just  turned  about  from  look- 
ing into  the  churchyard.  It  was  Kate.  She  had  been  expect- 
ing Philip,  and  waiting  for  him,  but  she  seemed  to  be  over- 
whelmed with  confusion.  As  he  crossed  the  floor  to  go  to  her, 
he  staggered,  and  then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

''You  are  ill,"  .she  said.  ''Sit  down.  Shall  I  ring  for  the 
brandy  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  We  have  had  a  hard  day  at  Tyn- 
wald — some  trouble — some  excitement — I'm  tired,  that's 
all." 

He  sat  on  the  end  of  the  bed.  and  gazed  out  on  the  veil  of 
rain,  slanting  across  the  square  church  tower  and  the  sky. 
20 


396  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  I  was  at  Ramsey  two  days  ago,"  he  said  ;  "  tljat's  what  I 
came  to  tell  you." 

"  Ah  !  "  She  linked  her  hands  before  her,  and  gazed  out 
also.    Then,  in  a  trembling  voice,  she  asked,  "  Is  mother  well  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  did  not  see  her,  but — yes,  she  bears  up  bravely." 

"  And— and — "  the  words  stuck  in  her  throat,  "  and  Pete  ?  " 

"  Well,  also— in  health,  at  all  events." 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  broken-hearted  ?  " 

With  a  deep  breath  he  answered,  "  To  listen  to  him  you 
would  think  he  was  cheerful  enough." 

"  And  little  Katherine  ? " 

"  She  is  well  too.  I  did  not  see  her  awake.  It  was  late, 
and  she  was  in  her  cradle.  So  rosy,  and  fresh,  and  beauti- 
ful ! " 

"  My  sweet  darling  !  She  was  clean  too  ?  They  take  care 
of  her,  don't  they  ?  " 

"More  care  they  could  not  take." 

"  My  darling  baby  !     Has  she  grown  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  they  talk  of  taking  her  out  of  the  long  clothes  soon. 
Nancy  is  like  a  second  mother  to  her. " 

Kate's  foot  was  beating  the  floor.     "  Oh,  why  can't  her  own 

mother "  she  began,  and  then  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  but 

that  cannot  be,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  Do  her  eyes  change  ?  Are 
they  still  blue  ?  But  she  was  asleep,  you  say.  My  dear  baby ! 
Was  it  very  late  ?  Nine  o'clock  ?  Just  nine  ?  I  was  thinking 
of  her  at  that  moment.  It  is  true  I  am  always  thinking  of 
her,  but  I  remember,  because  the  clock  was  striking.  'She 
will  be  in  her  little  cot  now,'  I  thought,  'bathed  and  clean, 
and  so  pretty  in  her  nightdress,  the  one  with  the  frill  ! '  My 
sweet,  sweet  angel  !  " 

Her  speech  was  confused  and  broken.  "  Do  you  think  if  I 
never  see  her  until  .  .  .  Will  I  know  her  if  .  .  .  It's  useless 
to  think  of  that,  though.  Is  her  hair  like  .  .  .  What  is  the 
colour  of  her  hair,  Philip  ?  " 

"  Fair,  quite  fair  ;  as  fair  as  mine  was " 

She  swirled  round,  came  face  to  face  with  him,  and  cried, 
"  Philip,  Philip,  why  can't  I  have  m}^  darling  to  myself  ?  She 
would  be  well  enough  here.  I  could  keep  ber  quiet.  Oh,  she 
would  not  disturb  you.  And  I  should  be  so  happy  with  my 
little  Kate  for  company.  The  time  is  long  with  me  sometimes, 
Philip,  and  I  could  play  with  her  all  the  day.     And  then  at 


MAX    AND    MAX.  397 

night,  when  she  would  be  in  the  cot,  I  could  ni;ikc  her 
little  stock  of  clothes — her  frocks  and  lier  little  pinafores, 
and " 

''Impossible,  Kate,  impossible  I  "  said  l*hilip. 

She  turned  to  the  window.  "Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  choking 
voice,  "  I  suppose  it  would  even  be  stealing  to  fetch  her  away 
now.  Only  think  !  A  mother  stealing  her  own  child  !  O 
gracious  heaven,  have  I  sinned  myself  so  far  from  my  inno- 
cent baby  I     My  child,  my  child  !     My  little  Katherine  I" 

Her  bosom  heaved,  and  she  Siiid  in  a  hard  tone,  "  I  daresay 
they  think  I'm  a  bad  motlier  because  I  left  her  to  others  to 
nurse  her  and  to  love  her,  to  see  her  every  day  and  all  day,  to 
bathe  her  sweet  body,  and  to  comb  her  yellow  hair,  to  look 
into  her  little  blue  eyes,  and  to  watch  all  her  pretty,  pretty 
ways— Oh,  yes,  yes."  she  said,  with  increasing  emotion,  "I 
daresay  they  think  that  of  me." 

"They  think  nothing  but  what  is  good  of  you,  Kate— noth- 
ing but  what  is  good  and  kind." 

She  looked  out  on  the  rain  which  fell  unceasingly,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  '*Is  Pete  still  telling  the  same  story — that 
I  am  only  a\vay  for  a  little  while — that  I  am  coming  back  ? " 

"He  is  writing  letters  to  himself  now,  and  saying  they 
come  from  you." 

"From  me?" 

"Such  simple  things — all  in  his  own  way— full  of  love  and 
happiness— /a ??i  so  happy  and  comfortable— \i  is  pitiful.  He 
is  like  a  child — he  never  suspects  anything.  You  are  better 
and  enjoying  yourself  and  looking  forward  to  coming  home 
soon.  Sending  kis.ses  and  presents  for  the  baby,  too,  and 
greetings  for  everybody.  There  are  mes.sages  for  me  also. 
Yoxir  true  and  lovimj  wife —it  is  terrible." 

She  covered  her  face  with  both  hands.  "  And  is  he  telling 
everybody  ?" 

"Yes;  that's  what  the  letters  are  meant  for.  Rethinks 
he  is  keeping  your  name  sweet  and  your  place  clean,  so  that 
you  may  return  at  any  time,  and  scandal  may  not  touch  you." 

"Oh,  why  do  you  tell  me  that,  Philip  ?  It  is  dragging  me 
back.  And  the  child  is  dra<iging  me  back  also  .  .  .  Does  ho 
show  the  letters  to  you  ? " 

"  Worse  than  that,  Kate — much  wors<'  Im*  makrs  ni<'  an- 
swer them.     I  answei-ed  one  the  other  night.      ( )h.  when  I 


398  THE  MANXMAN. 

think  of  it  !  Dear  icife,  glad  to  get  your  icelcome  letters. 
God  knows  how  I  held  the  pen— I  was  giddy  enough  to  drop 
it.  He  gave  you  all  the  news — about  your  father,  and  Gran- 
nie, and  everybody.  All  in  his  own  bright  way — poor  old 
Pete,  the  cheeriest,  sunniest  soul  alive.  The  Dempster  is  put- 
ting o,  sight  on  us  reg'lar— trusts  you  are  the  better  for  leav- 
ing home.  It  was  awful — awful  !  Dearest  Kirry,  I'm  miss- 
ing you  mortal — worse  than  Kimherley.  So  come  heme  soon, 
my  true  III  wife,  to  your  foolish  ould  husband,  for  his  heart 
is  losing  him.'''' 

He  leapt  up,  and  began  to  tramp  the  floor.  "  But  why  do 
I  tell  3^ou  this  ?    I  should  bear  my  own  burdens." 

Her  hands  had  come  down  from  her  face,  which  was  full 
of  a  great  compassion.  "  And  did  you  have  to  write  all  that  ? " 
tihe  asked. 

"Oh,  he  meant  no  harm.  He  had  no  thought  of  hui^ting 
anybody.  He  never  dreamt  that  every  word  was  burning  and 
blistering  me  to  the  heart  of  hearts.'' 

His  voice  deepened,  and  his  face  grew  hard  and  ugly.  "But 
it  was  the  same  as  if  some  devil  out  of  hell  had  entered  into 
the  man  and  told  him  how  to  torture  me — as  if  the  cruellest 
tyrant  on  earth  had  made  me  take  up  the  pen  and  write  down 
my  own  death-warrant.     I  could  have  killed  him — I  could  not 

help  it — yes,  I  felt  at  that  moment  as  if Oh,  what  am  I 

saying  ? " 

He  stopped,  sat  on  the  end  of  the  bed  again,  and  held  his 
head  between  his  hands. 

She  came  and  sat  by  his  side.  "Philip,"  she  said.  "I  am 
ruining  you.  Yes.  I  am  corrupting  you.  I  who  would  have 
had  you  so  high  and  pure — and  you  so  pure-minded— I  am 
bringing  you  to  ruin.  Having  me  here  is  destroying  you, 
Philip.  No  one  visits  you  now.  You  are  shutting  the  door 
on  everybody.  ...  I  heard  you  come  in  last  night,  Philip.  I 
hear  you  eyery  night.  Yes,  I  know  everything.  Oh,  you 
will  end  by  hating  me — I  know  you  will.  Why  don't  you 
send  me  away  ?  It  will  be  better  to  send  me  away  in  time, 
Philip.  Besides,  it  will  make  no  diflPerence.  We  are  in  the 
same  house,  yet  we  never  meet.  Send  me  away  now,  before  it 
is  too  late." 

He  dropped  his  hand  and  felt  for  her  hand  ;  he  was  trying 
not  to  look  into  her  face.    "  We  have  both  suffered,  Kate.    We 


MAN    AND    MAN.  399 

can  never  luite  one  niiolluT  we  have  siifVcicd  forcacli  otlu-r's 
sake." 

She  chin;,'-  ti<j:litly  to  tlie  liaiid  lit'  '^:\\'v  ]\v\\  and  said,  "  Tlnii 
you  will  never  foi*sake  nie,  whatever  liappens  i " 

"Never,  Kate,  never,"  he  answered  ;  and  witli  a  sniotlurcd 
crj^  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

The  rain  continued  to  pour  down  on  tlic  roofs  and  on  the 
tombs  witli  a  monotonous  plash. 

'*  But  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  she  said. 

"  God  knows,"  he  answered. 

*'  What  is  to  become  of  us,  Philip  ?  Are  we  never  to  smile 
on  each  other  again  ?  We  cannot  carry  a  burden  like  this  for 
ever.  To-day,  to-morrow,  the  next  day,  the  next  year— is  it  to 
go  on  like  this  for  a  lifetime  ?  Is  this  life  ?  Is  there  nothing 
that  will  end  it  ? " 

"Yes,  Kate,  yes;  there  is  one  thing  that  will  end  it— one 
thing  only." 

"  Do  you  mean— death  i  " 

He  did  not  answer.  She  rose  slowly  from  his  side  and  re- 
turned to  the  window,  rested  her  forehead  against  the  pane, 
and  looked  down  on  the  desolate  churchyard  and  the  sexton 
at  his  work  in  the  rain.  Suddenly  .she  bi*oke  the  silence. 
"Philip,"  she  said,  "  I  know  now  what  we  ought  to  do.  I 
wonder  we  have  never  thought  of  it  befoi*e." 

"  W^hat  is  it  ? "  he  asked. 

She  was  standing  in  front  of  him.  Her  breath  came  quickly. 
"  Tell  Pete  that  I  am  dead." 

"No,  no,  no." 

She  took  both  his  hands.     "  Yes,  yes,"  she  said. 

He  kept  his  face  away  from  her.  "  Kate,  what  are  you 
saying  ? " 

"  What  is  more  natural,  Philip  ?  Only  think- if  you  had 
been  anybod\'  else,  it  would  have  come  tt)  tliat  ah-eady.  You 
mu.st  have  hated  me  for  dmgging  you  down  into  this  mire  of 
deceit,  you  must  have  forsaken  me,  and  I  nnist  have  gone  to 
wreck  and  ruin.  Oli,  I  see  it  all— just  as  if  it  iiad  really  hap- 
pened. A  solitary  room  somewhere— alone — sinking — dying 
— unknown — unnamed— forgotten " 

His  eyes  were  wandering  about  the  room.  "It  will  kill 
him.     If  his  heart  can  break,  it  will  break  it,"  he  siiid. 

"  He  has  lived  after  a  heavier  blow  than  that,  Philip.     Do 


400  THE  MAXXMAN. 

you  think  he  is  not  suffering  ?  For  all  his  bright  ways  and 
hopeful  talk  and  the  letters  and  the  presents,  do  you  think  he 
is  not  suffering  ? " 

He  liberated  his  hands,  and  began  to  tramp  the  room  as 
before,  but  with  head  down  and  hands  linked  behind  him. 

"  It  will  be  cruel  to  deceive  him,''  he  said. 

"  No,  Philip,  but  kind.  Death  is  not  cruel.  The  wound  it 
makes  will  heal.  It  won't  bleed  for  ever.  Once  he  thinks  I 
am  dead  he  will  weep  a  little  perhaps,  and  then " — she  was 
stifling  a  sob — "  then  it  will  be  all  over.  '  Poor  girl,'  he  will 
say,  'she  was  much  to  blame.  I  loved  her  once,  and  never 
did  her  any  wrong.  But  she  is  gone,  and  she  w^as  the  mother 
of  little  Katherine— let  us  forget  her  faults  ' " 

He  had  not  heard  her;  he  was  standing  before  the  window 
looking  down.  "  You  are  right,  Kate,  I  think  you  must  be 
right." 

"I'm  sure  I  am." 

"  He  will  suffer,  but  he  will  get  over  it." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  And  you,  Philip — he  will  torture  you  no 
longer.  No  more  letters,  no  more  presents,  no  more  mes- 
sages  " 

''  I'll  do  it — I'll  do  it  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

She  opened  her  arms  wide,  and  cried,  "  Kiss  me,  Philip, 
kiss  me.  We  shall  live  again.  Yes,  we  shall  laugh  together 
still — kiss  me,  kiss  me." 

"  Not  yet — when  I  come  back." 

"  Very  well — when  you  come  back. " 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  crying  Avith  joy,  and  he  went  out  as 
he  had  entered,  noiselessly,  stealthily,  like  a  shadow. 

When  a  man  who  is  not  a  criminal  is  given  over  to  a  deep 
duplicity  of  life,  he  will  clutch  at  any  lie,  wearing  the  mask  of 
truth,  which  seems  to  shield  him  from  shame  and  pain.  He 
may  be  a  wise  man  in  every  other  relation,  a  shrewd  man,  a 
far-seeing  and  even  a  cunning  man,  but  in  this  relation— that 
of  his  own  honour,  his  own  fame,  his  own  safety — he  is  cer- 
tain to  be  a  blunderer,  a  bungler,  and  a  fool.  Such  is  the 
revenge  of  Nature,  such  is  God's  own  vengeance ! 


MAN    AND    MAN.  .\i)[ 


XVII. 


Philip  was  walkinir  fi-om  Halhiro  TLiuso  to  Kim  ('(>t(ajr<\ 
It  Wiis  late,  and  the  iii^i-lit  was  dark  and  silent  —a  nni;^;^y,  dank, 
and  stiignant  night,  without  wind  or  air,  moon  or  stars.  The 
road  was  quiet,  the  trees  were  still,  the  sea  made  only  a  far-off 
murmur. 

And  as  he  walked  he  struggled  to  persuade  himself  that  in 
what  he  was  about  to  do  he  would  be  doing  well.  "It  will 
not  be  wrong  to  deceive  him,"  he  thought.  ''  It  will  only  be 
for  his  own  good.  The  suspense  would  kill  him.  He  would 
waste  away.  The  sap  of  the  man's  soul  would  dry  up.  Then 
why  should  I  hesitate  ?  Besides,  it  is  partly  true — true  in  its  own 
sense,  and  that  is  the  real  sense.  She  is  dead— dead  to  him. 
She  can  never  return  to  him;  she  is  lost  to  him  for  ever.  So 
it  is  true  after  all — it  is  true." 

"  It  is  a  lie,"  said  a  voice  at  his  ear. 

He  started.  He  could  have  been  sure  that  somebody  had 
spoken.  Yet  there  was  nobody  by  his  side.  He  was  alone  in 
the  road.  "  It  must  have  been  my  own  voice,"  he  thought. 
"  I  must  have  been  thinking  aloud."  And  then  he  resumed 
his  walk  and  his  meditation. 

"  And  if  it  is  a  lie,  is  it  therefore  a  crime  ?  "  he  asked  him- 
self. "Sure  it  is — how  very  sure! — it  was  a  wise  man  that 
said  .so — a  great  fault  once  committed  is  the  first  link  in  a 
chain.  The  other  links  seem  to  be  crimes  also,  but  they  are 
not — they  are  con  .sequences.  Our  fault  was  long  ago,  and 
even  then  it  was  partly  the  fault  of  Fate.  If  the  past  could  be 
recalled  we  could  not .  act  differently  unless  our  fates  were 
different.  And  what  has  followed  has  been  only  the  conse- 
quence. It  was  the  consequence  when  Kate  was  mari'ied  to 
Pete;  it  was  the  consequence  when  she  left  him — and  this  is 
the  consequence." 

"  It  is  a  lie,"  said  the  same  voice  by  his  side. 

He  stopi)ed.  The  darkness  was  gross  around  liiin— he 
could  see  nothing. 

"Who's  there  ?  "  he  demanded. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  stretched  his  hand  out  nervous- 
ly. There  was  no  one  at  his  side.  "  It  must  have  been  the 
wind  in  the  trees,"  he  tliought  ;  but  there  could  be  no  wind 
in  the  stagnant  dampness  of  that  air.     "  It  was  like  my  own 


402  THE  MANXMAN. 

voice,"  he  thought.  Then  he  remembered  how  his  man  in 
Douglas  had  told  him  that  he  had  contracted  a  habit  of  talk- 
ing to  himself  of  late,  "It  was  my  own  voice,"  he  thought, 
and  he  went  on  again. 

"  A  lie  is  a  bad  foundation  to  build  on — that's  certain.  The 
thing  that  should  be  cannot  rest  on  the  thing  that  is  not.  It 
w^ill  topple  down  ;  it  will  come  to  ruin  ;  it  will  wreck  every- 
thing.    Still " 

"  It  is  a  lie,"  said  the  voice  again.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
taking it  this  time.  It  was  a  low,  deep  whisper.  It  seemed  to 
be  spoken  in  the  very  cavity  of  his  ear.  It  was  not  his  own 
voice,  and  yet  it  struck  upon  his  sense  with  the  sound  as  of 
his  own.     It  must  be  his  own  voice  speaking  to  himself  ! 

When  this  idea  took  hold  of  him,  he  was  seized  with  a 
deadly  shuddering.  His  heart  knocked  against  his  ribs,  and 
an  icy  coldness  came  over  him.  "  Only  the  same  tormenting 
dream,"  he  thought.  "  Before  it  was  a  vision  ;  now  it  is  a 
voice.  It  is  generated  by  solitude  and  separation.  I  must 
resist  it.  I  must  be  strong.  It  will  drive  me  into  an  oppres- 
sion as  of  madness.  Men  do  not '  see  their  souls '  until  they 
are  bordering  on  madness  from  religious  mania  or  crime." 

"  A  lie  !  a  lie  !  "  said  the  voice. 

"  This  is  madness  itself.  To  paint  faces  on  the  darkness, 
to  hear  voices  in  the  air,  is  madness.  The  madman  can  do  no 
more." 

"  A  lie  ! "  said  the  voice  again.  He  cast  a  look  over  his 
shoulder.  It  was  the  same  as  if  some  one  had  touched  him 
and  spoken. 

He  walked  faster.  The  voice  seemed  to  walk  with  him. 
"I  will  hold  myself  firm,"  he  thought  ;  ''  I  will  not  be  afraid. 
Reason  does  not  fail  a  man  until  he  allows  himself  to  believe 
that  it  is  failing,  '  I  am  going  mad,'  he  thinks  ;  and  then  he 
shrieks  and  is  mad  indeed.  I  will  not  depart  from  my  course. 
If  I  do  so  now,  I  shall  be  lost.  The  horror  will  master  me, 
and  I  shall  be  its  slave  for  ever." 

He  had  turned  out  of  Ballure  into  the  Ramsey  Road,  and 
he  could  see  the  town  lights  in  the  distance.  But  the  voice 
continued  to  haunt  him  persistently,  besiegingly,  despotically. 

"  Great  God  ! "  he  thought,  "  vrhat  is  the  imaginary  devil 
to  the  horror  of  this  presence  ?  Your  own  eye,  your  own 
voice,  always  with  you,  always  following  you  !     No  darkness 


MAN    AND    MAN.  403 

so  dense  that  it  can  hide  the  si^ht,  no  noise  so  loud  that  it  run 
deaden  the  sound  !  " 

He  walked  faster.  Still  the  voice  seemed  to  stride  hy  his 
side,  an  invisible  thinp:,  with  deliberate  and  noiseU'ss  step, 
from  which  there  was  no  escap(\ 

He  drew  up  suddenly  and  walked  slower.     His  knees  were 
tottering,  he  was  treading  iis  on  waves  ;  yet  he  went  on.     "  I 
will  not  yield.     I  will  master  myself.     I  will  do  what  I  in 
tended.     I  am  not  mad/'  he  thought. 

He  was  at  the  gate  of  Elm  CotUige  by  this  i'inu\  and,  with 
a  strong  glow  of  i-esolution,  he  walked  boldly  to  the  door  and 
knocked. 

xvni. 

Pete  had  not  awakened  until  late  that  morning.  While 
still  in  bed  he  had  heard  Grannie  and  Nancy  in  the  room 
below.  The  first  sound  of  their  voices  told  him  that  some- 
thing was  amiss. 

"  Aw,  God  bless  me,  God  bless  me  ! "  said  Nancy,  as  though 
with  uplifted  hands. 

"It  was  Kelly  the  postman,"  said  Grannie  in  a  doleful 
tone — the  tone  in  which  she  had  spoken  between  the  puffs  of 
her  pipe. 

''  The  dirt  !  "  said  Nancy. 

'*  He  was  up  at  Ciesar  s  before  breakfast  this  morning," 
said  Grannie. 

"There  now!"  cried  Nancy.  "There's  men  like  that, 
though.  Just  aiger  for  mischief.  It's  sweeter  than  all  their 
prayers  to  them.  .  .  .  But  where  can  .she  be,  then  ?  Has  she 
made  away  with  herself,  poor  thing  ? " 

'•  That's  what  I  was  asking  Cajsar,"  said  Gratmie.  "  If 
she's  gone  with  the  young  Ballawhaine,  what  ft)r  aren't 
you  going  to  England  over  and  fetching  her  home?" 
says  I. 

'•  And  what  did  Caesar  say  ? " 

"  '  No,'  says  he,  '  not  a  step,'  says  ho.  '  If  she's  dead,'  says 
he,  '  we'll  only  know  it  a  day  the  .sooner,  and  if  she's  in  life, 
it'll  be  a  disgrace  to  us  the  longest  day  we  live.'  " 

"  Aw,  bolla  veon,  bolla  veen  !  "  said  Nancy.  "  When  some 
men  is  getting  religion  there's  no  more  inside  at  them  than  a 


404  THE   MANXMAN. 

gutted  herring,  and  they're  good  for  nothing  but  to  put  up  in 
the  chimley  to  smook." 

'*  It's  Black  Tom,  woman,"  said  Grannie.  "  Caesar's  freck- 
ened  mortal  of  the  man's  tongue  going.  'It's  water  to  his 
wheel,'  he's  saying.  '  He'll  be  telling  me  to  set  my  own  house 
in  order,  and  me  a  local  preacher,  too.'  But  how's  the  man 
himself  ? " 

"  Pete  ? "  said  Nancy.  "  Aw,  tired  enough  last  night,  and 
not  down  yet.  .  .  .  Hush  !  .  .  .  It's  his  foot  on  the  loft." 

"  Poor  boy  !  poor  boy  !  "  said  Grannie. 

The  child  cried,  and  then  somebody  began  to  beat  the  floor 
to  the  measure  of  a  long-drawn  hymn.  Grannie  must  have 
been  sitting  before  the  fire  with  the  baby  across  her  knees. 

"Something  has  happened,"  thought  Pete  as  he  drew  on 
his  clothes.  A  moment  later  something  had  happened  in- 
deed. He  had  opened  a  di'awer  of  the  dressing-table  and  found 
the  wedding-ring  and  the  earrings  where  Kate  had  left  them. 
There  was  a  commotion  in  the  room  below  by  this  time,  but 
Pete  did  not  hear  it.  He  was  crying  in  his  heart.  "  It  is 
coming  !  I  know  it  !  I  feel  it  !  God  help  me  !  Lord  for- 
give me  !    Amen  !    Amen  ! " 

Caesar,  the  postman,  and  the  constable,  as  a  deputation 
from  "  The  Christians,"  had  just  entered  the  house.  Black 
Tom  was  with  them.  He  was  the  ferret  that  had  fetched  them 
out  of  their  holes. 

"  Get  thee  home,  woman,"  said  Caesar  to  Grannie,  "  This 
is  no  place  for  thee.     It  is  the  abode  of  sin  and  deception." 

"  It's  the  home  of  my  child's  child,  and  that's  enough  for 
me,"  said  Grannie. 

"  Get  thee  back,  I  tell  thee,"  said  Caesar,  "  and  come  thee  to 
this  house  of  shame  no  more." 

"Take  her,  Nancy,"  said  Grannie,  giving  up  the  child. 
"  Shame  enough,  indeed,  I'm  thinking,  when  a  woman  has  to 
shut  her  heart  to  her  own  flesh  and  blood  if  she's  not  to  disre- 
spect her  husband,"  and  she  went  off,  weeping. 

But  Caesar's  emotions  were  walled  in  by  his  pietistical 
views.  "  Every  one  that  hath  forsaken  houses,  or  brethren, 
or  sisters,  or  father,  or  mother,  or  wife,  or  children,  or  land, 
for  My  name's  sake,  shall  receive  an  hundredfold,"  said  Cassar, 
with  a  cast  of  his  eye  towards  Black  Tom. 

"Well,   if  I   ever  !"     said   Nancv.      "The  husband  that 


.^lAX   AND   MAN". 


405 


wanted  the  like  of  tlial  from  u\v  now.  ...  A  liuiidndfold, 
indeed  !    No,  not  for  a  hundred  liundrodfolds,  the  na.sty  dirt." 

''Don't  be  tiirnin*^  up  your  nose,  wonuin,  but  call  your 
master,"  said  Ciesar. 

"It's  more  than  some  ones  need  do,  then,  and  1  won't  call 
my  master,  neither — no,  thank  you,"  said  Nancy. 

"  I've  something  to  tell  him,  and  I've  come,  too,  for  to  do 
it,"  said  Caesar. 

"The  devil  came  farther  than  ever  you  did,  and  it  was  only 
a  lie  he  was  bringing  for  all  that,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Hould  your  tongue,  Nancy  Cain,"  said  Ca\sar,  "  and  take 
that  Popish  thing  ott"  the  child's  head."  It  was  the  scarlet 
hood.  ''  Pity  the  money  that's  wasted  on  the  like  wasn't 
given  to  the  poor." 

"  I've  heard  something  the  same  before,  Crpsar  Crcgeen," 
said  Nancy.  ''  It  was  Judas  Iscariot  was  saying  it  first,  and 
you'i-e  just  thieving  it  from  a  thief." 

"  Chut  ! "  cried  Caesar,  goaded  by  the  laughter  of  Black 
Tom.  'Til  call  the  man  myself.  Peter  Quilliam  !"  and  he 
made  for  the  staircase  door. 

"  Stand  back,"  cried  Nancy,  holding  the  child  like  a  pillow- 
over  one  of  her  arms,  and  lifting  the  other  threateningly. 

"  Aw,  you'll  never  be  raising  your  hand  to  the  man  of 
God,  woman,"  giggled  Black  Tom. 

"Won't  I,  though  ?"  said  Nancy  grimly,  "or  the  man  of 
the  devil  either,"  she  added,  flashing  at  himself. 

"The  woman's  not  to  trust,  sir,"  snuMed  the  constal)le. 
"  She's  only  an  infidel,  anyway.  I've  heard  tell  of  her  saying 
she  didn't  believe  the  whale  swallowed  Jonah." 

"  That's  the  ditfVance  between  us,  then,"  .siiid  Nancy;  '*  for 
there's  some  of  you  Manx  ones  would  believe  if  Jonah  swal- 
lowed the  whale," 

Tlie  staircase  door  opened  at  the  back  of  Nancj',  and  Pete 
stepped  into  the  room.  "  What's  this,  friends  ?"  he  asked,  in 
a  careworn  voice. 

C^psar  stepped  forward  with  a  yellow  envelope  in  his  hand. 
"What's  that,  sir  ?  "  he  answered. 

Pete  took  the  envelope  and  opened  it. 

"That's  your  letter  back  to  you  thi'ough  the  dead  letter 
office,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Caesar. 

"Well?"  said  Pete. 


406  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  There's  nobody  of  that  name  in  that  place,  is  there ! "  said 
Caesar. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Pete  again. 

"  Letters  from  England  don't  come  through  Peel,  but  your 
first  letter  had  the  Peel  postmark,  hadn't  it  ? " 

"  Well  ? " 

''  Parcels  from  England  don't  come  through  Port  St.  Mary, 
but  your  parcel  was  stamped  in  Port  St.  Mary,  wasn't  it  ? " 

"  Anything  else  ?  " 

"The  handwriting  inside  the  letter  wasn't  your  own  hand- 
writing, w  as  it  ?  The  address  on  the  outside  of  the  parcel 
wasn't  your  own  address — no  ? " 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Enough  to  be  going  on,  I'm  thinking." 

"What  about  Uncle  Joe  ?"  said  Black  Tom,  with  another 
giggle. 

"Your  mistress  is  not  in  Liverpool.  You  don't  know 
where  she  is.  She  has  gone  the  way  of  all  sinners,"  said 
Caesar. 

"  Is  that  what  you're  coming  to  tell  me  ? "  said  Pete. 

"No;  we're  coming  to  tell  you,"  said  Caesar,  "that,  as  a 
notorious  loose  liver,  we  must  be  putting  her  out  of  class. 
And  we're  coming  to  call  on  yourself  to  look  to  your  own 
salvation.  You've  deceaved  us,  Mr.  Quilliam.  You've  grieved 
the  Spirit  of  the  Lord,"  with  another  "glime"  in  the  direction 
of  Black  Tom;  "  you Ve  brought  contempt  on  the  fellowship 
that  counts  you  for  one  of  the  fold.  You've  given  the  light 
of  your  countenance  to  the  path  of  an  eyildoer,  and  you've 
brought  down  the  head  of  a  child  of  God  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave." 

Caesar  w^as  moved  by  his  self-satisfied  piety,  and  began  to 
make  noises  in  his  nostrils.  "Let  us  lay  the  case  before 
the  Lord,"  he  said;  and  he  went  down  on  his  knees  and 
prayed — 

"  Our  brother  has  deceived  us,  O  Lord,  but  we  forgive  him 
freely.  Forgive  Thou  also  his  trespasses,  so  that  at  the  last  he 
escape  hell-fire.  Count  not  Thy  handmaid  for  a  daughter  of 
Belial,  wherever  she  is  this  day.  May  it  be  good  for  her  to  be 
cut  ofi'  from  the  body  of  the  righteous.  Grant  that  she  feel 
this  mercy  in  her  carnal  body  before  her  eternal  soul  be  called 
to  everlasting  judgment.    Lord,  strengthen  Thy  servant.     Let 


MAN   AND   MAN.  407 

not  his  natural  affections  be  as  tlie  snare  of  tlie  fowler  unto 
liis  feet.  Thoup^h  it  ji^rieve  him  sore,  even  to  U'ars  and  trihu- 
hition,  help  liiui  to  pluck  out  the  gourd  that  growcth  in  his 
own  bosom " 

"  Dear  heiirt  alive!  "  cried  Nancy,  clatterin.<,^  her  clogs,  "  it's 
a  wonder  in  the  world  the  man  isn't  thinking  shame  to  blacken 
his  own  daughter  before  the  Almighty  Himself." 

"Be  merciful,  O  Lord,"  continued  Ciesar,  "  to  all  rank  un- 
believers, and  such  as  live  in  heathen  darkness  in  a  Christian 
land,  and  don't  know  Saturday  from  Sunday,  and  are  iniper- 
ent  uncommon  and  bad  with  the  tongue "' 

'^  Stop  that  now."  cried  Nancy,  "  that's  meant  for  me." 

Pete  had  stood  through  this  in  silence,  but  with  an  angry, 
miserable  face. 

"  Beg  pardon  all,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  going  for  denying  to 
what  you  say.  I'm  like  the  fish  at  the  heel  of  the  trawl-boat — 
the  net's  closing  in  on  me  and  I'm  caught.  The  game's  up.  I 
did  deceave  you.  I  did  write  those  lettei's  myself.  I've  no 
Uncle  Joe,  nor  no  Auntie  Joney  neither.  My  wife's  left  me. 
I'm  not  knowing  where  she  is,  or  what's  becoming  of  her. 
I'm  done,  and  I'm  for  throwing  up  the  sponge." 

There  were  grunts  of  satisfaction.  ''  But  don't  you  feel  the 
need  of  pardon,  brother,"  said  Caesar. 

"I  don't,"  said  Pete.  ''What  I  was  doing  I  was  doing  for 
the  best,  and,  if  I  was  doing  wrong,  the  Almighty  will  have  to 
forgive  me — that's  about  all." 

Caesar  shot  out  his  lip.  Pete  raised  himself  to  his  full 
height  and  looked  from  face  to  face,  until  his  eyes  settled  on 
the  postman. 

'•  But  it  takes  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief,"  he  said.  "  Which  of 
you  was  the  thief  that  catcht  me  ?  Mayl>e  I've  Ix^en  only  a 
blundering  blockhead,  and  perhaps  you've  been  clever,  aiul 
smart  uncommon,  but  I'm  thinking  there's  some  of  you  hasn't 
been  rocked  enough  for  all  that." 

He  held  out  the  yellow  envelope.  "This  lett<^r  was  sealed 
when  you  gave  it  to  me.  Mr,  Cregeen — liow  did  you  know 
what  was  inside  of  it  ?  'On  Her  Majesty's  Sarvice,'  you  s;iy. 
But  it  isn't  dead  letters  only  that's  coming  with  words  same  as 
that." 

The  postman  was  meddling  with  his  front  hair. 

"The  Lord  has  His  own  wayses  of  doing  His  work,  has  He, 


408  THE  MANXMAN. 

Caesar  ?  I  never  heard  tell,  though,  that  opening  other  peo- 
ple's letters  was  one  of  them." 

Mr.  Kelly's  ferret  eyes  were  nearly  twinkling  themselves 
out. 

Pete  threw  letter  and  envelope  into  the  fire.  "  YouVe  come 
to  tell  me  you're  going  to  turn  my  wife  out  of  class.  All  right ! 
You  can  turn  me  out,  too,  and  if  the  money  I  gave  you  is  any- 
where handy,  you  can  turn  that  out  at  the  same  time  and  make 
a  clane  job." 

Black  Tom  was  doubling  with  suppressed  laughter  at  the 
corner  of  the  dresser,  and  Caesar  was  writhing  under  his 
searching  glances. 

'•  You're  knowing  a  dale  about  the  ould  Book  and  I'm  not 
knowing  much,"  said  Pete,  "but  isn't  it  saying  somewhere, 
'  Let  him  that's  without  sin  amongst  you  chuck  the  first  stone  ? ' 
I'm  not  worth  mentioning  for  a  saint  myself,  so  I  lave  it  with 
you." 

His  voice  began  to  break.  ''You're  thinking  a  dale  about 
the  broken  law  seemingly,  but  I'm  thinking  niore  about  the 
broken  heart.  There's  the  like  in  somewhere,  you  go  bail. 
The  woman  that's  gone  may  have  done  wrong — I'm  not  say- 
ing she  didn't,  poor  thing;  but  if  she  comes  home  again,  you 
may  turn  her  out,  but  I'll  take  her  back,  whatever  she  is  and 
whatever  she's  done — so  help  me  God  I  will— and  I'll  not  wait 
for  the  Day  of  Judgment  to  ask  the  Almighty  if  I'm  doing 
right." 

Then  he  sat  down  with  his  back  to  them  on  a  chair  before 
the  fire. 

"  Now  you  can  go  home  to  nurse,"  said  Nancy,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "  and  lave  me  to  sweeten  the  kitchen — it's  wanting  water 
enough  after  dirts  like  you." 

Caesar  also  was  wiping  his  eye — the  one  nearest  to  Black 
Tom.  "  Come."  he  said  with  plaintive  resignation,  "  our  errand 
was  useless.  The  Ethiopian  cannot  change  his  skin,  nor  the 
leopard  his  spots." 

"  No,  but  he  can  get  a  topcoat  to  cover  them,  though,"  said 
Nancy.  "  Oh,  that  flea  sticks,  does  it,  Caesar  ?  Don't  blame 
the  looking-glass  if  your  face  is  ugly." 

Caesar  pretended  not  to  hear  her.  ''  Well,"  he  said,  with  a 
sigh  discharged  at  Pete's  back,  ''  we'll  pray,  spite  of  appear- 
ances, that  we  may  all  go  to  heaven  together  some  day." 


MAN   AND   MAN.  409 

"No,  thank  you,  not  nie,"  said  Nancy.  "I  wouldn't  he- 
manc  myself  ^oinjj  anywhere  with  the  like  of  you." 

The  Job  in  Ciesar  coukl  bear  up  no  lonf^cr.  "Vain  and 
ungrateful  woman,"  he  cried,  "who  hath  eaten  of  my  bread 
and  drunken  of  my  cup " 

''  Cursing  me,  are  you  ? "  said  Nancy.  "  Sakes  1  you  nnist 
have  been  found  in  the  bulrushes  at  Pharaoh's  daughter  and 
made  a  prophet  of." 

"No  use  bandying  words,  sir,  wid  a  single  woman  dat  lives 
alone  wid  a  single  man,"  said  Mr.  Niplightly. 

Nancy  flopped  the  child  from  lier  right  arm  to  her  left,  and 
with  the  back  of  her  hand  she  slapped  tlie  constable  across  the 
face.  ''  Take  that  for  the  cure  of  a  bad  heart,"  she  said,  "  and 
tell  the  Dempster  I  gave  it  you." 

Then  she  turned  on  the  postman  and  Black  Tom.  "  Out  of 
it,  you  lil  thief,  your  mouth's  only  a  dirty  town-well  and  your 
tongue's  the  pump  in  it.  Go  home  and  die,  you  big  black 
spider — you're  ould  enough  for  it  and  wicked  enough,  too. 
Out  of  it,  the  lot  of  you  ! "  she  cried,  and  clashed  the  door  at 
their  backs,  and  then  opened  it  again  for  a  parting  shot. 
"And  if  it's  true  you're  on  your  way  to  heaven  together, 
just  let  me  know,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  put  up  with  the  other 
place  myself." 


XIX. 

That  evening  Pete  was  sitting  with  one  foot  on  the  cradle 
rocker,  one  arm  on  the  table,  and  the  other  hand  ti-illing  ten- 
derly with  the  ring  and  the  earrings  which  he  had  found  in 
the  drawer  of  the  dressing-table,  when  there  was  a  hurried 
knock  on  the  door.  It  had  the  hollow  reverberation  of  a 
knock  on  the  lid  of  a  cofBn. 

"Come  in,"  called  Pete. 

It  was  Philip,  but  it  was  almost  as  if  Death  had  entered, 
so  thin  and  bony  were  his  cheeks,  so  wild  his  eyes,  so  cold  his 
hands. 

Pete  was  prepared  for  anything.  "You've  found  me  out, 
too,  I  see  you  have,"  he  said  defiantly.  "You  needn't  tell  me 
— it's  chasing  caught  fish." 

"  Be  brave,  Pete,"  said  Philip.  "  It  will  be  a  great  shock  to 
you." 


410  THE  MANXMAN". 

Pete  looked  up  and  his  manner  changed.  "  Speak  it  out, 
sir.     It's  a  poor  man  that  can't  stand " 

"  I've  come  on  the  saddest  errand,"  said  Philip,  taking  a 
seat  as  far  away  as  possible. 

"  You've  found  her — you've  seen  her,  sir.     Where  is  she  ? " 

"■  She  is "  began  Philip,  and  then  he  stopped. 

''Go  on,  mate;  I've  known  trouble  before  to-day,"  said 
Pete. 

"  Can   you  bear  it  ? "   said  Philip.     ''  She  is "  and  he 

stopped  again. 

"  She  is — where  ? "  said  Pete. 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Philip  at  last. 

Pete  rose  to  his  feet.  Philip  rose  also,  and  now  poured  out 
his  message  with  the  headlong  rush  of  a  cataract. 

"  In  fact,  it  all  happened  some  time  ago,  Pete,  but  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  tell  you  before.  I  tried,  but  I  couldn't.  It  was 
in  Douglas— of  a  fever — inalodging— alone— unattended " 

"  Hould  hard,  sir  !  Give  me  time,"  said  Pete.  "  I'd  a  gun- 
shot wound  at  Kimberley,  and  since  then  I've  a  stitch  in  my 
side  at  whiles  and  sometimes  a  bit  of  a  catch  in  my  breathing." 

He  staggered  to  the  porch  door  and  threw  it  open,  then 
came  back  panting—"  Dead  !  dead  !    Kate  is  dead  1 " 

Nancy  came  from  the  kitchen  at  the  moment,  and  hearing 
what  he  was  saying,  she  lifted  both  hands  and  uttered  a  pierc- 
ing shriek.  He  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  her 
back,  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  said,  holding  his  right 
hand  hard  at  his  side,  "  Women  are  brave,  sir,  but  when  the 

storm  breaks  on  a  man "    He  broke  off  and  muttered  again, 

"  Dead  !     Kirry  is  dead  !  " 

The  child,  awakened  by  Nancy's  cry,  was  now  whimpering 
fretfully.  Pete  went  to  the  cradle  and  rocked  it  with  one  foot> 
crooning  in  a  quavering  treble,  "  Hush-a-bye  !  Imsh-a-bye  ! " 

Philip's  breathing  was  oppressed.  He  felt  like  a  man  at 
the  edge  of  a  precipice,  with  an  impulse  to  throw  himself  over. 
"  God  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  I  could  kill  myself.  I've  broken 
your  heart " 

"No  fear  of  me,  sir,"  said  Pete.  "I'm  an  ould  hulk  that's 
seen  weather.  I'll  not  go  to  pieces  from  inside  at  all.  Give 
me  time,  mate,  give  me  time."  And  then  he  went  on  mutter- 
ing as  before,  "  Dead  !  Kirry  dead  !  Hush-a-bye  !  My  Kirry 
dead  ! " 


MAN    AND    MAN.  41  i 

The  little  one  slept,  and  Pete  drew  back  in  his  chair,  nodded 
into  the  tire,  and  said  in  a  weak,  childish  voice,  "I've  known 
her  all  my  life,  d'ye  know  ?  She's  been  my  lil  sweetheart 
since  she  was  a  slip  of  a  girl,  and  slapped  the  schoolniastrr  for 
bating-  me  wrongously.  Swate  lil  thing  in  them  days,  mate, 
Avith  her  brown  feet  and  tossing  hair.  And  now  she's  a  woman 
and  she's  dead  !     The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me  !  " 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  heavily  across  the  floor,  dip- 
ping and  plunging  as  if  going  upstairs.  "The  bright  and 
happy  she  was  when  I  started  for  Kimberley,  too;  with  her 
pretty  face  by  the  aising  stones  in  the  morning,  all  laughter 
and  mischief.  Five  yeai's  I  was  seeing  it  in  my  drames  like 
that,  and  now  it's  gone.  Kiri-y  is  gone  !  My  Kirry  I  God 
help  me  !     O  God,  have  mercy  upon  me  ! " 

He  stopped  in  his  unsteady  walk,  and  sat  and  stared  into 
the  tire.  His  eyes  were  red ;  blotches  of  heart's  blood  seemed 
to  be  rising  to  them ;  but  there  was  not  the  sign  of  a  tear. 
Philip  did  not  attempt  to  console  him.  He  felt  as  if  the  first 
syllable  would  choke  in  his  throat. 

"  I  see  how  it's  been,  sir,"  said  Pete.  "  While  I  was  away 
her  heart  was  changing  her,  and  when  I  came  back  she 
thought  she  must  keep  her  word.  My  poor  lamb  !  She  was 
only  a  child  anyway.  But  I  was  a  man— I  ought  to  have 
seen  how  it  was.  I'm  like  a  drowning  man,  too — things  are 
coming  back  on  me.  I'm  seeing  them  plain  enough  now. 
But  it's  too  late  !  My  poor  Kirry  !  And  I  thought  I  was 
making  her  so  happy  !"'  Then,  w^ith  a  helpless  look,  "You 
wouldn't  believe  it,  sir,  but  I  was  never  once  thinking  noth- 
ing else.  No,  I  wasn't  ;  it's  a  fact.  I  was  same  as  a  sailor 
working  all  the  voyage  home,  making  a  cage,  and  painting  it 
goold,  for  the  love-bird  he's  catcht  in  the  sunny  lands  some- 
where ;  but  when  he's  putting  it  in,  it's  only  wanting  away, 
poor  thing." 

With  a  sense  of  grovelling  meanness,  Philij)  sat  and  lis- 
tened. Then,  with  eyes  wandering  across  the  lloor,  he  saitl. 
"You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  You  did 
everything  a  man  could  do — everything.  And  she  was  in- 
nocent also.  It  was  the  fault  of  anotlior.  He  came  between 
you.  Perhaps  he  thought  he  couldn't  liel])  it— perhai)s  he  ])er- 
suaded  himself— God  knows  what  lie  he  told  himself— but  she's 

innocent,  Pete  ;  believe  me,  she's " 

27 


412  THE   MANXMAN. 

Pete  brought  his  fist  down  heavily  on  the  table,  and  the 
rings  that  lay  on  it  jumped  and  tingled.  "What's  that  to 
me  ? "  he  cried  hoarsely.  "  What  do  I  care  if  she's  innocent 
or  guilty  ?  She's  dead,  isn't  she  ?  and  that's  enough.  Curse 
the  man  !  I  don't  want  to  hear  of  him.  She's  mine  now. 
What  for  should  he  come  here  between  me  and  my  own  ? '' 

The  torn  heart  and  racked  brain  could  bear  no  more.  Pete 
dropped  his  head  on  the  table.  Presently  his  anger  ebbed. 
Without  lifting  his  head,  he  stretched  his  hand  across  the 
rings  to  feel  for  Philip's  hand.  Philip's  hand  trembled  in 
his  grasp.  He  took  that  for  sympathy,  and  became  the  more 
ashamed. 

"Give  me  time,  mate,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  my  own  man 
soon.  My  head's  moithered  dreadful — I'm  not  knowing  if  I 
heard  you  right.  In  Douglas,  you  say  ?  By  herself,  too  ? 
Not  by  herself,  surely  ?  Not  quite  alone  neither  ?  She  found 
you  out,  didn't  she  ?  You'd  be  there,  Phil  ?  You'd  be  with 
her  yourself  ?    She'd  be  wanting  for  nothing  ?  " 

Philip  answered  huskily,  his  eyes  still  wandering.  "  If  it 
will  be  any  comfort  to  you  .  .  .  yes,  I  teas  with  her — she 
wanted  for  nothing." 

"  My  poor  girl  !  "  said  Pete.  "  Did  she  send — had  she  any 
—maybe  she  said  a  word  or  two— at  the  last,  eh  ?  " 

Philip  clutched  at  the  question.  There  was  something  at 
last  that  he  could  say  without  falsehood.  "  She  sent  a  prayer 
for  your  forgiveness,"  he  said.  "  She  told  me  to  tell  you  to 
think  of  her  as  little  as  might  be  ;  not  to  grieve  for  her  too 
much,  and  to  try  to  forget  her,  so  that  her  sin  also  might  be 
forgotten." 

"  And  the  lil  one — anything  about  the  lil  one  ? "  asked  Pete. 

"  That  was  the  bitterest  grief  of  all,"  said  Philip.  "  It  was 
so  hard  that  you  must  think  her  an  unnatural  mother.  '  My 
Katherine  !  My  little  Katherine  !  My  sweet  angel  ! '  It  was 
her  cry  the  whole  day  long." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  said  Pete,  nodding  at  the  fire  ;  "  she  left  the 
lil  one  for  my  sake,  wanting  it  with  her  all  the  while.  Poor 
thing  !  You'd  comfort  her,  Philip  ?  You'd  let  her  go 
aisy  ? " 

"'The  child  is  well  and  happy,'  I  told  her.  'He's  think- 
ing nothing  of  yourself  but  what  is  good  and  kind,'  I  said." 

"  God's  peace  rest  on  her  !    My  darling  !    My  wife  !  "  said 


MAN   AND   iMAN.  413 

Pete  solemnly.  Then  suddenly  in  another  tone,  "  Do  you 
know  where  she's  huried  i '' 

Philip  hesitiited.  He  had  not  foreseen  this  question.  Where 
had  been  his  head  that  he  had  never  thought  of  it '{  But  there 
was  no  going  back  now.  He  was  compelled  to  go  on.  He 
must  tell  lie  on  lie.     "Yes,"  he  faltered. 

"  Could  you  take  me  to  the  grave  ? " 

Philip  gasped  ;  the  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead. 

"Don't  be  freckened,  sir,"  said  Pete  ;  "Pm  my  own  man 
again.     Could  you  take  me  to  my  wife's  grave  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Philip.  He  was  in  the  rapids.  He  was  on  the 
edge  of  precipitation.  He  was  compelled  to  go  over.  He  made 
a  blindfold  plunge.     Lie  on  lie  ;  lie  on  lie  ! 

"  Then  we'll  start  by  the  coaeh  to-morrow,"  said  Pete. 

Philip  rose  with  rigid  limbs.  He  had  meant  to  teU  one 
lie  only,  and  already  he  had  told  many.  Truly  "a  lie  is  a 
cripple  ;  "  it  cannot  stand  alone.  "  Good  night,  Pete  ;  I'll  go 
home.     I'm  not  well  to-night." 

"  We'll  stop  the  coach  at  your  aunt's  gate  in  the  morning," 
said  Pete. 

They  stepped  to  the  door  together,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  dank  and  lifeless  darkness. 

"  The  world's  getting  wonderful  lonely,  man,  and  you're 
all  that's  left  to  me  now,  Phil — you  and  the  child.  I'm  not 
for  wailing,  though.  When  I  got  my  gun-shot  wound  out 
yonder,  I  was  away  over  the  big  veldt,  hundreds  of  miles  from 
anywhere,  behind  the  last  bush  and  the  last  blade  of  grass, 
with  the  stones  and  the  ashes  and  the  dust — about  as  far,  you'd 
say,  as  the  world  was  finished,  and  never  looking  to  see  her- 
self and  the  ould  island  and  the  ould  faces  no  more.  I'm  not 
so  lonesome  as  that  at  all.  Good-night,  ould  fellow,  and  God 
bless  you  ! " 

The  gate  opened  and  closed.  Philip  went  stumbling  up 
the  road.  He  was  hating  Pete.  To  hate  this  open-hearted 
man  who  had  dragged  him  into  an  entanglement  of  lies  was 
the  only  resource  of  his  stifled  conscience. 

Pete  went  back  to  the  house,  muttering.  "Kirryis  dead! 
Kirry  is  dead!"  He  put  the  catch  on  the  door,  said,  "Close 
the  shutters,  Nancy,"  and  then  returned  to  his  chair  by  the 
cradle. 


414  THE  MANXMAN. 

XX. 

Later  the  same  night  Pete  carried  the  news  to  Sulby. 
Grannie  was  in  the  bar-room,  and  he  broke  it  to  her  gently, 
tenderly,  lo^dngly. 

Loud  voices  came  from  the  kitchen.  Caesar  was  there  in 
angry  contention  with  Black  Tom.  An  open  Bible  was  be- 
tween them  on  their  knees.  Tom  tugged  it  towards  him, 
bobbed  his*  blunt  forefinger  down  on  the  page,  and  cried, 
"There's  the  text— that'll  pin  jou—jmblicans  and  sin- 
ners.''^ 

Caesar  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  said  with  withering 
scorn,  "  It's  a  bad  business— 1*11  give  you  lave  to  say  that.  It's 
men  like  you  that's  making  it  bad.  But  whether  is  it  better 
for  a  bad  business  to  be  in  bad  hands  or  in  good  ones  ?  There's 
a  big  local  praicher  in  London,  they're  telling  mc,  that's  hot 
for  joining  the  public-house  to  the  chm'ch,  and  turning  the 
parsons  into  the  publicans.  That's  what  they  all  were  on  the 
Isle  of  Man  in  ould  days  gone  by,  and  pity  they're  not  so  still. 
Oh,  I've  been  giving  it  my  sarious  thoughts,  sir.  IVe  been 
making  it  a  subject  for  prayer.  '  Will  I  give  up  my  public  or 
hould  fast  to  it  to  keep  it  out  of  worse  hands  ? '  And  I'm 
strong  to  believe  the  Lord  hath  spoken.  '  It's  a  little  vine- 
yard— a  little  work  in  a  little  vineyard.  Stick  to  it,  Caesar,' 
and  so  I  will." 

Pete  stepped  into  the  kitchen  and  flung  his  news  at  Caesar 
with  a  sort  of  wild  melancholy,  as  who  would  say,  ''  There,  is 
that  enough  for  you  ?    Are  you  satisfied  now  ? " 

''  Mair  yee  shoh — it's  the  hand  of  God,"  said  Ctesar. 

"  A  middling  bad  hand  then."  said  Pete  ;  ''  I've  seen  bet- 
ter, anyway." 

A  high  spiritual  pride  took  hold  of  Ciesar— Black  Tom  was 
watching  him,  and  working  his  big  eyebrows  vigorously. 
With  mouth  firmly  shut  and  head  thrown  back,  Ca?sar  said 
in  a  sepulchral  voice,  "The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath 
taken  away.     Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord!  " 

Pete  made  a  crack  of  savage  laughter. 

"  Aren't  you  feeling  it,  sir  ?  "  said  Caesar. 

"Not  a  feel  near  me,"  said  Pete.  "I  never  did  the  Lord 
no  harm  that  I  know  of,  but  He's  taken  my  young  wife  and 
left  my  poor  innocent  lil  one  motherless." 


MAN  AND  MAN.  4I5 

"Unsearchable  the  wisdom  and  justice  of  God,"  said 
Caesar. 

*'  Unsearchable  ? "  said  Pete.  "  It's  all  that.  But  I  don't 
know  if  you're  calling  it  justice.  I'm  not  myself.  It  isn't  my 
tally.  Blasphemy  ?  I  lave  it  with  you.  A  scoffer,  am  1  ? 
So  be  it.  The  Lord's  licked  me,  and  I've  had  enough.  But 
I'm  not  going  down  on  my  knees  for  it,  anyway.  The  Al- 
mighty and  me  is  about  quits." 

With  that  word  on  his  lips  he  strode  out  of  the  place, 
grim,  implacable,  almost  savage,  a  fierce  smile  fluttering  on 
his  ashy  face. 


XXI. 

Grannie  came  to  Elm  Cottage  next  morning  with  two  duck 
eggs  for  Pete's  breakfast.  She  was  boiling  them  in  a  sauce- 
pan when  Pete  came  downstairs. 

''  Come  now,"  she  said  coaxingly,  as  she  laid  them  on  the 
table,  with  the  water  smoking  off  the  shells.  But  Pete  could 
not  eat. 

"  He  hasn't  destroyed  any  food  these  days,"  said  Nancy. 
A  little  before  she  had  rolled  her  apron,  slipped  out  into  the 
street,  and  brought  back  a  tiny  packet  screwed  up  in  a  bit  of 
newspaper. 

"  Perhaps  he'll  ate  them  on  the  road,"  said  Grannie.  "  I'll 
put  them  in  the  hankerchief  in  his  hat  anyway." 

"  My  faith,  no,  woman !  "  cried  Nancy.  ''  He's  the  mischief 
for  sweating.  He'll  be  mopping  his  forehead  and  forgetting 
the  eggs.  But  here — where's  your  waistcoat  pocket,  Pete  ? 
Have  you  room  for  a  hayseed  anywhere  ?  There!  .  .  .  It's  a 
quarter  of  twist,  poor  boy,"  she  whispered  behind  her  hand 
to  Grannie. 

Thus  they  vied  with  each  otlier  in  little  attentions  to  the 
down-hearted  man.  Meantime  Crow,  the  driver  of  the  Doug- 
las coach,  a  merry  old  sinner  with  a  l)ulbous  nose  and  short 
hair,  standing  erect  like  the  steel  pins  of  an  electric  brush, 
was  whistling  as  he  put  his  horses  to  in  the  market  place. 
Presently  he  swirled  round  the  corner  and  drew  up  at  the 
gate.  The  women  then  became  suddenly  quiet,  and  ])ut  their 
aprons  to  their  mouths,  as  if  a  hearse  had  stopped  at  the  door; 


416  THE  MANXMAN. 

but  Pete  bustled  about  and  shouted  boisteroi.sly  to  cover  the 
emotion  of  his  farewell. 

i' Good-bye,  Grannie;  I'll  say  a  word  for  you  when  I  get 
there.  Good-bye,  Nancy  ;  I'll  not  be  forgetting  yourself 
neither.  Good  bye,  lil  bogh,"  dropping  on  one  knee  at  the 
side  of  the  cradle.  "What  right  has  a  man's  heart  to  be  go- 
ing losing  him  while  he  has  a  lil  innocent  like  this  to  live 
for  ?    Good-bye  I  " 

There  was  a  throng  of  women  at  the  gate  talking  of  Kate. 
"  Aw,  a  civil  person,  very — a  civiller  person  Beveif  was." — '*  It's 
me  that'll  be  missing  her  too.  I  served  her  eggs  to  the  day  of 
her  death,  as  you  might  say.  '  Good  morning.  Christian 
Anne,'  says  she— just  like  that.  Welcome,  you  say  ?  I  was 
at  home  at  the  woman's  door." — "  And  the  beautiful  she  came 
home  in  the  gig  with  the  baby!  Only  yesterday  you  might 
say.  And  now,  Lord-a-massy  I  " — ''  Hush !  it's  himself !  I'm 
fit  enough  to  cry  when  I  look  at  the  man.  The  cheerful  heart 
is  broke  at  him." — "  Hush  I " 

They  dropped  their  heads  so  that  Pete  might  avoid  their 
gaze,  and  held  the  coach-door  open  for  him,  expecting  that  he 
would  go  inside,  as  to  a  funeral.  But  he  saluted  them  with 
'*  Good  morning  all,"  and  leapt  to  the  box-seat  with  Crow. 

The  coach  stopped  to  take  up  the  Deemster  at  the  gate  of 
Ballure  House.  Philip  looked  thin  and  emaciated,  and  walked 
with  a  death-like  weakness,  but  also  a  feverish  resolution. 
Behind  him,  carrying  a  rug,  came  Aunty  Nan  in  her  white 
cap,  with  little  nervous  attentions,  and  a  face  full  of  anxiety. 

"  Drive  inside  to-day,  Philip,"  she  said. 

"No,  no."  he  answered,  and  kissed  her,  pushed  her  to  the 
other  side  of  the  gate  with  gentle  protestiition,  and  climbed  to 
Pete's  side.     Then  the  old  lady  said — 

"Good-morning,  Peter.  I'm  so  sorry  for  your  great 
trouble,  and  trust  .  .  .  But  you'U  not  let  the  Deemster  ride 
too  long  outside  if  it  grows  .  .  .  He's  had  a  sleepless  night 
and " 

"Go  on.  Crow,"  said  Philip,  in  a  decisive  voice. 

'Til  see  to  that,  Miss  Christian,  ma'am,"  shouted  Crow  over 
his  shoulder.  "  His  honour's  studdying  a  bit  too  hard — that's 
what  he  is.  But  a  gentleman's  not  much  use  if  his  wife's  a 
widow,  as  the  man  said— eh  ?  Looking  well  enough  yourself, 
though,  Miss  Christian,  ma'am.     Getting  younger  every  day, 


MAN  AND   MAN.  .}  1  7 

in  fact,  ril  liave  to  bo  fctcliino:  that  East  Iiuloe  cn])Vi\  up  yet. 
I  will  that.  Ha!  ha!  Get  on.  Boxer!"  Then,  wilh  a  llicU  of 
the  whip,  they  were  otf  on  their  journey. 

The  day  was  calm  and  beautiful.  Old  Barrule  wore  his 
yellow  skull-cap  of  flowering  gorse,  the  birds  sang  on  the  trees, 
and  the  sea  on  the  shore  sang  also  with  the  sound  of  far-olF 
joy-bells.  It  was  a  heart-breaking  day  to  Pete,  but  he  tried  to 
bear  himself  bravely. 

He  was  seated  between  Philip  and  the  driver.  On  the 
farther  side  of  Crow  there  were  two  otlier  i)assengers,  a  farmer 
and  a  fisherman.  The  farmer,  a  foul-mouthed  fellow  with  a 
long  staff  and  two  dogs  racing  and  barking  on  the  road,  was 
returning  from  Midsummer  fair,  at  which  he  had  sold  his 
sheep  ;  the  fisherman,  a  simple  creature,  was  coming  home 
from  the  mackerel -fishing  at  Kinsale,  with  a  box  of  the  fish 
between  his  legs. 

"  The  wife's  been  having  a  lil  one  since  I  was  laving  in 
March,"  said  the  fisherman,  laughing  all  over  his  bronzed  face. 
"  A  boy,  d'3'e  say  ?  Aw,  another  boy,  of  coorse.  Three  of 
them  now—  all  men.  Got  a  letter  at  Ram.sey  post-office  com- 
ing through.  She's  getting  on  as  nice  as  nice,  and  the  ould 
woman's  busy  doing  for  her." 

"  Gee  up,  Boxer — we'll  wet  its  head  at  the  Hibernian,"  said 
Crow. 

"I'm  not  partic'lar  at  all,"  said  the  fisherman  cheerily. 
"The  mack'rel's  been  doing  middling  this  season,  anyway." 

And  then  in  his  simple  way  he  went  on  to  paint  home,  and 
the  joy  of  coming  back  to  it,  with  the  new  baby,  and  the 
mother  in  child-bed,  and  the  grandn)other  as  housekeei)er,  and 
the  other  children  waiting  for  new  frocks  and  new  jackets  out 
of  the  earnings  of  the  fishing,  and  Ijimself  going  round  to  pay 
the  grocer  what  had  been  put  on  "strap  "  while  he  was  at  Kin- 
sale,  till  Pete  was  melted,  and  could  listen  no  longer. 

"I'm  persuaded  still  she  wasn't  well  when  she  went  away," 
he  whispered,  turning  his  shoulder  to  the  men  and  his  face  to 
Philip.  He  talked  in  a  low  voice,  just  above  the  rumble  of 
the  wlioels,  trying  to  extenuate  Kate's  fault  and  to  excuse  her 
to  Philip. 

"It's  no  use  thinking  hard  of  anybody,  is  it,  .sir  ?  "  he  said. 
"We  can't  crawl  into  another  person's  .soul,  as  the  saying  is." 

After  that  he  asked  many  questions — about  Kate's  illness, 


41S  THE  MANXMAN. 

about  the  doctor,  about  the  funeral,  about  everything  except 
the  man — of  him  he  asked  nothing.  Philip  was  compelled  to 
answer.  He  was  like  a  prisoner  chained  at  the  galleys — he 
was  forced  to  go  on.  They  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  top  of 
Ballaglass,  which  goes  down  to  the  mill  at  Cornaa. 

"  There's  the  glen,  sir,"  said  Pete.  "  Aw,  the  dear  ould 
days !  Wading  in  the  water,  leaping  over  the  stones,  clamber- 
ing on  the  trunks — aw,  dear!  aw,  dear!  Bareheaded  and  bare- 
footed in  those  times,  sir ;  but  smart  extraordinary,  and  a  ter'- 
ble  notion  of  being  dressy,  too.  Twisting  ferns  about  her  lil 
neck  for  lace,  slicking  a  mountain  thistle,  sparkling  with  dew, 
on  her  breast  for  a  diamond,  twining  a  trail  of  fuchsia  round 
her  head  for  a  crown — aw,  dear !  aw,  dear !  And  now — well, 
well,  to  think!  to  think!" 

There  was  laughter  on  the  other  side  of  the  coach. 

''What  do  you  say,  Capt'n  Pete  ?  "  shouted  Crow. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Pete. 

The  fisherman  had  treated  the  driver  and  the  farmer  at  the 
Hibernian,  and  was  being  rewarded  with  robustious  chaff. 

"  I'm  telling  Dan  Johnny  here  these  childers  that's  coming 
when  a  man's  away  from  home  isn't  much  to  trust.  Best  put 
a  sight  up  with  the  lil  one  to  the  wise  woman  of  Glen  Aldyn, 
eh  ?  A  man  doesn't  like  to  bring  up  a  cuckoo  in  the  nest — 
what  d'ye  say,  Capt'n  ?  " 

"  I  say  you're  a  dirty  ould  divil,  Crow ;  and  I  don't  want  to 
be  chucking  you  off  your  seat,"  said  Pete ;  and  with  that  he 
turned  back  to  Philip. 

The  driver  was  affronted,  but  the  farmer  pacified  him  by 
an  appeal  to  his  fear.  "  He'd  be  coaree  to  tackle,  the  same 
fellow — I  saw  him  clane  out  a  tent  with  one  hand  at  Tyn- 
wald." 

"  It's  a  wonder  she  didn't  come  home  for  all,"  said  Pete  at 
Philip's  ear — "  at  the  end,  you  know.  Couldn't  face  it  out,  I 
suppose  ?  Nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  though,  if  she'd  only 
known.  I  had  kept  things  middling  straight  up  to  then. 
And  I'd  have  broke  the  head  of  the  first  man  that'd  wagged  a 
tongue.  But  maybe  it  was  myself  she  was  freckened  of  I 
Freckened  of  me  !     Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !  " 

Philip  was  in  torment.  To  witness  Pete's  simple  grief,  to 
hear  him  breathe  a  forgiveness  for  the  erring  woman,  and  to 
be  trusted  with  the  thoughts  of  his  heart  as  a  father  might  be 


MAN    AND   MAN.  419 

trusted  by  a  younj^  cliild — it  was  ann^uish,  it  was  a^ony,  it  was 
horror.  More  than  once  lie  felt  an  imi)ulse  to  cast  olF  his 
load,  to  confess,  to  tell  everythinj^.  But  he  rellected  that  he 
had  no  right  to  do  this  — that  the  secret  was  not  his  own  to 
give  away.  His  fear  restrained  him  also.  He  looked  into 
Pete's  face,  so  full  of  manly  sorrow,  and  shuddered  to  think 
of  it  transformed  by  rage. 

"Sit  hard,  gentlemen.  Breeches'  work  here,"  shouted 
Crow. 

They  were  at  the  top  of  the  steep  descent  going  down  to 
Laxey.  The  white  town  lay  sprinkled  over  the  green  banks 
of  the  glen,  and  the  great  water-wheel  stood  in  the  depths  of 
the  mountain  gill  behind  it. 

"  She's  there  !  She's  yonder  !  It's  herself  at  the  door. 
She's  up.  She's  looking  out  for  the  coach,"  cried  the  fisher- 
man, clambering  up  on  to  the  seat. 

"  Aisy  all,"  shouted  Crow. 

"  No  use,  Mr.  Crow.  Nothing  will  persuade  me  but  that's 
herself  with  the  lil  one  in  a  blanket  at  the  door." 

Before  the  coach  had  drawn  up  at  the  bridge,  the  fisher- 
man had  leapt  to  the  ground,  shouldered  his  keg,  shouted 
"  Good  everin'  all,"  and  disappeared  down  an  alley  of  the 
town. 

The  driver  alighted.  A  crowd  gathered  around.  There 
were  parcels  to  take  up,  parcels  to  set  down,  and  the  horses  to 
water.  When  the  coach  was  ready  to  start  again,  the  farmer 
with  his  dogs  had  gone,  but  there  was  a  passenger  for  an  in- 
side place.  It  was  a  girl,  a  bright  young  thing,  with  a  comely 
face  and  laughing  black  eyes.  She  was  dressed  smartly,  after 
her  country  fashion,  in  a  hat  covered  with  scarlet  poi)])ios, 
and  with  a  vast  brooch  at  the  neck  of  her  bodice.  In  one 
hand  she  carried  a  huge  bunch  of  sweet-smelling  gilvers.  A 
grou])  of  girl  companions  came  to  see  her  off,  and  there  was 
much  giggling  and  chatter  and  general  excitement. 

"  Are  you  forgetting  the  pouch  and  i>ipe,  Emma  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see  ;  am  I  ?     No  ;  it's  here  in  my  frock." 

"Well,  you'll  be  coming  together  by  the  coach  at  nine,  it's 
like  ? " 

"  It's  like  we  will,  Liza,  if  the  steamer  isn't  late." 

"Now  then,  ladies,  off  the  step  !  Any  room  for  a  lil  calf 
in  the  straw  with   you,  missy  ?    Freckened  ?    Tut  !     Only  a 


420  THE  MANXMAN. 

lil  calf,  as  clane  as  clane — and  breath  as  swate  as  your  own, 
miss.  There  j^ou  are — it'll  be  lying  quiet  enough  till  we  get 
to  Douglas.  All  ready  ?  Ready  we  are  then.  Collar  work 
now,  gentlemen.  Aise  the  horse,  sir.  Thank  you  !  Thank 
you  !     Not  you,  your  Honour — sit  where  you  are,  Dempster." 


XXII. 

Pete  got  down  to  walk  up  the  hill,  but  Philip,  though  he 
made  some  show  of  alighting  also,  w^as  glad  of  the  excuse  to 
remain  in  his  seat.  It  relieved  him  of  Pete's  company  for  a 
Avhile,  at  all  events.  He  had  time  to  ask  himself  again  why 
he  was  there,  where  he  was  going  to,  and  what  he  w^as  going 
to  do.  But  his  brain  was  a  cloudy  waste.  Only  one  picture 
emerged  from  the  maze.  It  was  that  of  the  burial  of  the 
nameless  waif  in  the  grave  at  the  foot  of  the  wall.  If  he  was 
conscious  of  any  purpose,  it  was  a  vague  idea  of  going  to  that 
grave.  But  it  lay  ahead  of  him  only  as  an  ultimate  goal. 
He  was  waiting  and  watching  for  an  opportunity  of  escape. 
If  it  came,  God  be  praised  !  If  it  did  not  come,  God  help  and 
forgive  him  ! 

Meanwhile  Pete  walked  behind,  and  caught  fragments  of 
a  conversation  betw^een  the  girl  and  Crow. 

"  So  you're  going  to  meet  himself  coming  home,  miss,  eh  ? " 

'*  My  faith,  how  d'ye  know  that  ?  But  it's  yourself  for 
knowing  things,  Mr.  Crow.  Has  he  been  sailing  foreign  ? 
Yes,  sir  ;  and  nine  months  away  for  a  week  come  Monday. 
But  spoken  at  Holyhead  in  Tuesday's  paper,  and  paid  off  in 
Liverpool  yesterday.  That's  his  'nitials,  if  you  want  to  know 
—J.  W.  I  w-orked  them  on  the  pouch  myself.  I've  spun 
him  a  web  for  a  jacket,  too.  Sweethearting  with  the  miner 
fellows  while  Jemmy's  been  away  ?  Have  I,  d'ye  say  ?  How 
I)eople  will  be  talking  !  " 

"Aw,  no  offence  at  all.  But  sorry  you're  not  keeping 
another  string  to  your  bow,  missy.  These  sailor  lads  aren't 
partic'lar,  anyway.  Bless  your  heart,  no  ;  but  getting  as  tired 
of  one  swateheart  as  a  pig  of  brewer's  grain.  Constant  ? 
Chut  !  When  the  like  of  that  sort  is  away  foreign,  he  lays  up 
of  the  first  girl  he  comes  foul  of." 

The  girl  laughed,  and  shook  her  head  bravely,  but  the 


MAN   AND   MAN.  42 [ 

tears  were  beginning  to  trickle  from  her  eyes,  and  the  hand 
that  held  the  flowers  was  trembling. 

"Don't  listen  to  the  man,  my  dear,"  said  Pete.  "There's 
too  much  comic  in  these  ould  bachelor  bucks.  Your  lioy  is 
dying  to  get  home  to  you.  Go  bail  on  that,  Emma.  The 
packet  isn't  making  half  way  enough  for  him,  and  he's  bad 
dreadful  wanting  to  ship  aloft  and  let  out  the  topsail." 

At  the  crast  of  the  hill  Pete  climbed  back  to  Philip's  side, 
and  said,  "The  heart's  a  quare  thing,  sir.  Got  its  winds  and 
tides  same  as  anything  else.  The  wind  blows  contrary  ways 
in  one  day,  and  it's  the  same  with  the  heart  itself.  Change- 
able ?  Well,  maybe  !  We  shouldn't  be  too  hard  on  it  for 
all.  ...  If  I'd  only  known  now.  .  .  .  She  wasn't  much  bet- 
ter than  a  child  when  I  left  for  Kimberley  .  .  .  and  then 
what  w^as  I  ?  I  was  only  common  stuff  anyway  .  .  .  not 
much  fit  for  the  likes  of  herself,  when  you  think  of  it,  sir.  .  .  . 
If  I'd  only  guessed  w^hen  I  came  back.  ...  I  could  have  done 
it,  sir — I  was  loving  the  woman  like  life,  but  if  I'd  only 
known,  now\  .  .  .  Well,  and  what's  love  if  it's  thinking  of 
nothing  but  itself  ?  If  I'd  thought  she  was  loving  another 
man  by  the  time  I  came  home,  I  could  have  given  her  up  to 
him — yes,  I  could  ;  I'm  persuaded  I  could — so  help  me  God,  I 
could." 

Philip  was  wasting  on  that  journey  like  a  piece  of  wax. 
Pete  saw  his  face  melting  away  till  it  looked  more  like  a  skele- 
ton than  the  face  of  a  man  really  alive. 

"  You  mustn't  be  taking  it  so  bad  at  all,  Phil,"  said  Pete. 
"  She'll  be  middling  right  where  she's  gone  to,  sir.  She'll  be 
right  enough  yonder,"  he  said,  rolling  his  head  sideways  to 
where  the  sun  w^as  going  round  to  its  setting.  And  then 
softly,  as  if  half  afraid  she  might  not  be,  he  muttered  into  his 
beard,  "God  be  good  to  my  poor  broken-hearted  girl,  and  for- 
give her  sins  for  Christ's  sake." 

An  elderly  gentleman  got  on  the  coach  at  Onchan. 

"  Helloa,  Deemster  !  "  he  cried.  '*  You  look  as  sober  as  an 
old  crow.     Sober  !     Old  Crow  !     Ha,  ha  !  " 

He  was  a  facetious  person  of  high  descent  in  the  island. 

*'  Crow  never  goes  home  without  getting  off  the  box  once 
or  twice  to  pick  up  the  moonlight  on  the  road — do  you, 
Crow  ? " 

"  That'll  do,  parson,  that'll  do  !  "  roared  Crow.     And  then 


422  THE  MANXMAN. 

his  reverence  leaned  across  the  driver  and  directed  the  shaft 
of  his  wit  at  Philip. 

"  And  how's  the  young  housekeeper,  Deemster  ? " 

Philip  shuddered  visibly,  and  made  some  inarticulate  re- 
ply- 

"  Good-looking"  young  woman,  they're  telling  me.  Jem-y- 
Lord's  got  taste,  seemingly.  But  take  care,  3^our  Honour  ; 
take  care  !  '  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbour's  wife,  nor 
his  ox,  nor  his  ass ' " 

Philip  laughed  noisily.  The  miserable  man  was  writhing 
in  his  seat. 

"  Take  an  old  fiddler's  advice,  Deemster — have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  women.  When  they're  young  they're  kittens  to 
play  with  you,  but  when  they're  old  they're  cats  to  scratch 
you." 

Pete  twisted  his  body  until  the  whole  breadth  of  his  back 
blocked  the  parson  from  Philip's  face. 

"  A  fortnight  ago,  you  wxre  saying,  sir  ?  " 

"  A  fortnight,"  muttered  Philip. 

"  There'll  be  daisies  growing  on  her  grave  by  this  time," 
said  Pete  softly. 

The  parson  had  x>ut  up  his  nose-glasses.  "Who's  this 
fellow,  Crow  ?  Captain — what  ?  His  honour's  cousin  ? 
Cousin  f  Oh,  of  course — yes — I  remember — Tynwald — ah — 
h'm!" 

The  coach  set  down  its  passengers  in  the  market-place. 
Pete  inquired  the  hour  of  its  return  journey,  and  was  told 
that  it  started  back  at  six.  He  helped  the  girl  to  alight,  and 
directed  her  to  the  pier,  where  a  crowd  of  people  were  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  steamer.  Then  he  rejoined  Philip,  who 
led  the  way  through  the  town. 

The  Deemster  was  observed  by  everybody.  As  he  passed 
along  the  streets  there  was  much  whispering  and  nudging, 
and  some  bowing  and  lifting  of  hats.  He  responded  to  none 
of  it.  He  recognised  no  one.  He,  who  was  famous  for 
courtesy,  renowned  for  gracious  manners,  beloved  for  a  smile 
like  sunshine — the  brighter  and  more  winsome  when  it  broke 
as  from  a  cloud — returned  no  man's  salutation  that  day,  and 
replied  to  no  woman's  greeting.  His  face  was  set  hard  like  a 
marble  mask.     It  passed  along  without  appearing  to  see. 

Pete  walked  one  step  behind.     They  did  not  speak  as  they 


MAN    AND    MAN.  403 

went  througli  the  town.  Not  a  word  or  a  sign  passed  between 
them.  Philip  turned  into  a  side  street,  and  drew  up  at  an  iron 
gate  wliich  opened  on  to  a  churchyard.  They  were  at  the 
churchyard  of  St.  George's. 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Philip  huskily. 

Pete  took  off  his  hat. 

The  gate  was  partly  open.  It  was  Saturday,  and  the  or- 
ganist was  alone  in  the  church  practising  hymns  for  Sunday's 
services.     They  passed  through. 

The  churchyard  was  an  oblong  enclosure  within  high 
walls,  overlooked  on  its  long  sides  by  rows  of  houses.  One  of 
these  rows  was  Athol  Street,  and  one  of  the  houses  was  the 
Deemster's. 

It  w^as  late  afternoon  by  this  time.  Long  shadows  were 
cast  eastward  from  the  tombstones  ;  the  horizontal  sunlight 
was  making  the  leaves  very  light. 

Philip  walked  noisily,  jerkily,  irregularly,  like  a  man  con- 
scious of  weakness  and  deteriAined  to  conquer  it.  Pete  walked 
behind,  so  softly  that  his  foot  on  the  gi-avel  was  hardly  to  be 
heard.    The  organist  was  playing  Cowper's  familiar  hymn — 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform." 

There  was  a  broad  avenue,  bordered  by  railed  tombs,  lead- 
ing to  the  chiirch-door.  Philip  turned  out  of  this  into  a  nar- 
row path  which  went  through  a  bare  green  space,  that  was 
dotted  with  pegs  of  wood  and  little  unhewn  slabs  of  slate,  like 
an  abandoned  quoit  ground.  At  the  farthest  corner  of  this 
space  he  stopped  before  a  mound  near  to  the  wall.  It  was  the 
new-made  grave.  The  scai-s  of  the  turf  were  still  unhealed, 
and  the  glist  of  the  spade  was  on  the  grass. 

Philip  hesitated  a  moment,  and  looked  round  at  Pete,  as 
if  even  then,  even  there,  he  would  confess.  But  he  saw  no 
escape  from  the  mesh  of  his  own  lies,  and  with  a  deep,  breath 
of  submission  he  pointed  down,  turned  his  head  over  his 
shoulder,  and  said  in  a  strange  voice — 

"There." 

The  silence  was  long  and  awful.  At  length  Pete  said  in  a 
broken  whisper — 

"  Lave  me,  sir,  lave  me." 

Philip  turned  away,  breathing  audibly.     A  moment  longer 


421  THE  MANXMAN. 

Pete  stood  where  he  was,  gripping  his  hat  with  both  hands  in 
front  of  him.  Then  he  went  down  on  his  knees.  "  Oh,  for- 
give me  my  hard  thoughts  of  thee,"  he  said.  '' JesuSj  forgive 
me  my  hard  thoughts  of  my  poor  Kirry." 

Philip  lieard  no  more.  The  organ  was  very  loud  and  tri- 
umphant. 

"  Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 
Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  His  brigtit  designs 
And  works  His  sovereign  will." 

A  red  shaft  of  sunlight  tipped  down  on  Pete's  uncovered 
head  from  the  top  of  the  wall.  The  blessed  tears  had  come  to 
him.  He  was  sobbing  aloud  ;  he  was  alone  with  his  love  at 
last. 

He  was  alone  with  her  indeed.  At  that  moment  Kate  was 
looking  down  from  the  window  of  her  room.  She  saw  him 
kneeling  and  praying  by  another's  grave. 

Philip  never  knew  how  he  got  out  of  the  churchyard.  He 
crawled  out — creeping  along  by  the  wall,  and  slinking  through 
the  gate — heart-sick  and  all  but  heart-dead.  When  he  came  to 
himself,  he  w^as  standing  in  Athol  Street,  and  a  company  of 
jolly  fellows  in  a  jaunting-car,  driving  out  of  the  golden  sun- 
set, were  rattling  past  him  wdth  shouts  and  peals  of  laughter. 


xxin. 

Kate  was  standing  in  her  room  with  the  door  open,  beat- 
ing her  hands  together  in  the  first  helpless  stupor  of  fear,  when 
she  saw  a  man  coming  up  the  stairs.  His  legs  seemed  to  be 
giving  way  as  he  ascended  ;  he  was  bent  and  feeble,  and  had 
all  the  look  of  great  age.  As  he  approached  he  lifted  his  face, 
which  was  old  and  withered.  Then  she  saw  who  it  was.  It 
was  Philip. 

She  made  an  involuntary  cry,  and  he  smiled  upon  her — a 
hard,  frozen,  terrible  smile.  "  He  is  lost,"  she  thought.  Her 
scared  expression  penetrated  to  his  soul.  He  knew  that  she 
had  seen  everything.  At  firet  he  tried  to  speak,  but  he  could 
utter  nothing.  Then  a  mad  desire  seized  him  to  lay  hold  of 
her — by  the  arms,  by  the  shoulders,  by  the  throat.     Conquer- 


MAN    AND    MAN.  405 

iiipf  tliis  impulse,  he  stood  motionless,  passing*  his  hands 
through  his  hair.  She  drop])ed  her  eyes  and  hung  her  head. 
Their  abasement  in  each  other's  eyes  was  (•()mi)letc.  He  was 
ashamed  before  her,  she  was  ashamed  before  him.  One  mo- 
ment, they  faced  each  other  tlius,  in  silence,  in  pitiless  and 
awful  silence,  and  then  slowly,  very  slowly,  stupefied  and 
crushed,  he  turned  away  and  crept  out  of  the  house. 

"It  is  the  end — the  end.''  What  was  the  use  of  going 
farther  ?  He  had  fallen  too  low.  His  degradation  was  abject. 
It  was  hopeless,  irreparable,  irremediable.  ''End  it  all — end 
it  all."     Tlie  words  clamoured  in  his  inmost  soul. 

Halting  down  the  quaj',  he  made  for  the  ferry  steps,  where 
boats  were  w^aiting  for  hire.  He  had  lately  hired  one  of  an 
evening,  and  pulled  round  the  Head  for  the  sake  of  the  breath 
and  the  silence  of  the  sea. 

"  Groing  far  out  this  evening,  your  Honor  ? "  the  boatman 
asked. 

"  Farther  than  ever,"  he  answered. 

Pull,  pull!  Away  from  the  terrible  past.  Away  from  the 
horrible  present.  The  steamer  had  arrived,  and  had  dis- 
charged her  passengers.  She  was  still  pulsing  at  the  end  of 
the  red  pier  like  a  horse  that  pants  after  running-  a  race. 

A  band  was  playing  a  waltz  somewhere  on  the  promenade. 
Pleasure  boats  were  darting  about  the  bay.  Sea-birds  were 
sitting  on  the  water  where  the  sewers  of  the  gay  little  town 
empty  into  the  sea. 

Pull,  pull!  He  was  flying  from  remorse,  from  despair, 
from  the  deep  duplicity  of  a  double  life,  from  the  lie  that  had 
slain  the  heart  of  a  living  man.  How  low  he  had  fallen! 
Could  he  fall  lower  without  falling  into  crime  ? 

Pull,  pull!  He  would  be  a  criminal  next.  When  a  man 
had  been  degraded  in  his  own  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  her  he 
loved,  crime  stood  beckoning  him.  He  might  try,  but  he 
could  not  i*esist  ;  he  must  yield,  he  must  fall.  It  was  the  only 
degradation  remaining.  Better  end  everything  before  drop- 
ping into  that  last  abyss. 

Pull,  pull !  He  was  the  judge  of  his  island,  and  he  had  out- 
raged justice.  Holding  a  false  title,  living  on  a  false  honour, 
he  was  safe  of  no  man's  respect,  secure  of  no  woman's  gowl- 
will.  Exposure  hung  over  him.  He  would  be  disgraced,  the 
law  would  be  di.sgi-aced,  the  island  would  be  disgraced.     Pull, 


426  THE  MANXMAN. 

pull,  pull,  before  it  is  too  late  ;  out,  far  out,  farther  than  tide 
returns,  or  sea  tells  stories  to  the  shore. 

He  had  rowed  like  a  slave  escaping  from  his  chains,  in  ter- 
ror of  being  overtaken  and  dragged  back.  The  voices  of  the 
harbour  were  now  hushed,  the  music  of  the  band  was  dead- 
ened, the  horses  running  along  the  promenade  seemed  to  creep 
like  ants,  and  the  traffic  of  the  streets  was  no  louder  than  a 
dull  subterranean  rumble.  He  had  shot  out  of  the  margin  of 
smooth  blue  water  in  which  the  island  lay  as  on  a  mirror,  and 
out  of  the  shadow  of  the  hill  upon  the  bay.  The  sea  about 
him  now  w^as  running  green  and  glistening,  and  the  red  sun- 
light was  coming  down  on  it  like  smoke.  Only  the  steeples 
and  towers  and  glass  domes  of  the  town  reached  up  into  lu- 
minous air.  He  could  see  the  squat  tower  of  St.  George's  sil- 
houetted against  the  dying  glory  of  the  sky.  Seven  years  he 
had  been  its  neighbour,  and  it  had  witnessed  such  happy  and 
such  cruel  hours.  All  the  joy  of  work,  the  sweetness  of  suc- 
cess, the  dreams  of  greatness,  the  rosy  flushes  of  love,  and 
then— the  tortures  of  conscience,  the  visions,  the  horror,  the 
secret  shame,  the  self-abandonment,  and,  last  of  all,  the  two- 
fold existence  as  of  husband  with  wife,  hidden,  incomplete, 
unfulfilled,  yet  full  of  tender  ties  which  had  seemed  like  gall- 
ing bonds  so  many  a  time,  but  were  now  so  sweet  when  the 
hour  had  come  to  break  them. 

How  distant  it  all  appeared  to  be  !  And  was  he  flying  from 
the  island  like  this  ?  The  island  that  had  honoured  him,  that 
had  rewarded  him  beyond  his  deserts,  and  earlier  than  his 
dreams,  that  had  suffered  no  jealousy  to  impede  him,  no  rival- 
ry to  fret  him,  no  disparitj'  of  age  and  service  to  hold  him 
back — the  little  island  that  had  seemed  to  open  its  arms  to 
him,  and  to  cry,  "  Philip  Christian,  son  of  your  father,  grand- 
son of  }"our  grandfather,  first  of  Manxmen,  come  up  !  " 

Oh,  for  what  might  have  been  !  Useless  regrets  !  Pull, 
pull,  and  forget. 

.  But  the  home  of  his  childhood  !  Ballure — Auntie  Nan — 
his  father's  death  brightened  by  one  hope — the  last,  but  ah  ! 
how  vain  ! — Port  Mooar— Pete — "  The  sea's  calling  me."  Pull, 
pull  !  The  sea  was  calling  him  indeed.  Calling  him  to  the 
deep  womb  that  is  death,  not  birth. 

He  was  far  out.  The  sun  had  gone,  the  island  was  like  a 
bird  of  ashy  grey  stretched  across  the  horizon ;  the  great  wing 


MAN    AND   xMAN.  .1^7 

of  night  was  coming  down  from  the  sky,  and  up  out  the  mys- 
terious depths  of  the  sea  came  tlie  profound  liuni,  tlie  mighty 
voice  that  is  the  organ  of  the  workl. 

He  took  in  the  oars,  and  liis  tiny  shell  hcgan  to  drift.  At 
that  moment  his  eye  caught  something  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat.  It  was  a  liower,  a  broken  stem,  a  torn  rose,  and  a  few 
scattered  rose  leaves.  Only  a  relic  of  the  last  occupants,  but 
it  brought  back  the  perfume  of  love,  a  sense  of  tenderness,  of 
bright  eyes,  of  a  caress,  a  kiss.  His  mind  went  back  to  Sulby, 
to  the  Melliah,  to  the  glen,  to  the  days  so  full  of  tremulous 
love,  when  they  hovered  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  They 
had  been  hurled  over  it  since  then.  It  was  some  relief  that 
between  love  and  honour  ho  would  not  have  to  struggle  any 
longer. 

And  Kate  ?  When  all  was  over  and  word  went  round, 
"  The  Deemster  is  gone,"  what  would  happen  to  Kate  ?  She 
would  still  be  at  his  house  in  Athol  Street.  That  would  be  the 
beginning  of  evil  I  She  would  wait  for  him,  and  when  hope 
of  his  return  was  lost,  she  would  weep  for  him.  That  would 
be  the  key  of  discovery  !  The  truth  would  become  known. 
Though  he  might  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  yet  the  cloud 
that  hung  over  his  life  would  break.  It  was  inevitable.  x\nd 
she  would  be  there  to  bear  the  storm  alone — alone  with  the 
island  which  had  been  deceived,  alone  with  Pete,  who  had 
been  lied  to  and  betrayed.     Was  that  just  ?    Was  that  brave  ? 

And  then — what  then  ?  What  would  become  of  her  ? 
Openly  shamed,  charged,  as  she  must  be,  with  the  whole 
w^eight  of  the  crime  from  whose  burden  he  had  fled,  accused 
of  his  downfall,  a  Delilah,  a  Jezebel,  what  fate  \yould  befall 
her  ?  Where  would  she  go  ?  Down  to  what  depths  ?  He  saw 
her  sinking  lower  than  ever  man  sinks  ;  he  heard  her  appeals, 
her  supplications. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done,"  he  cried,  ''  that  I  can  neither  live 
nor  die  ? " 

Then  in  that  delirium  of  anguish  in  which  the  order  of 
nature  is  reversed,  and  external  objects  no  longer  produce 
sensation,  but  sensation  produces,  as  it  were,  external  objects, 
he  thought  he  saw  something  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  where 
the  broken  rose  had  been.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man,  stretched 
out,  still  and  lifeless.  His  eyes  went  up  to  the  face.  The  face 
was  his  own.  It  was  ashy  grey,  and  it  stared  up  at  the  grey 
28 


428  THE  MANXMAN. 

sky.  The  brain  image  was  himself,  and  he  was  dead.  He 
watched  it,  and  it  faded  away.  There  was  nothing  left  but 
the  scattered  rose-leaves  and  the  torn  flower  on  the  broken 
stem. 

The  terrible  shadow  was  gone  ;  he  felt  that  it  was  gone  for 
ever.  It  was  dead,  and  it  would  haunt  him  no  longer.  It  had 
lived  on  an  empire  of  evil-doing,  and  his  evil-doing  was  at  an 
end.  He  would  "  see  his  soul  "  no  more.  The  tears  gushed 
to  his  eyes  and  blinded  him.  They  were  the  first  he  could  re- 
member since  he  was  a  boy.  Alone  between  the  two  mirrors 
of  sea  and  sky,  the  chain  that  he  had  dragged  so  long  fell 
away  from  him.     He  was  a  free  man  again. 

''  Go  back  !  your  place  is  by  her  side.  Don't  sneak  out  of 
life,  and  leave  another  to  pay.  Suffering  is  a  grand  thing. 
It  is  the  struggle  of  the  soul  to  cast  off  its  sin.  Accept  it,  go 
through  with  it,  come  out  of  it  purged.  Go  back  to  the  island. 
Your  life  is  not  ended  yet." 


XXIV. 

"  We  were  just  going  sending  a  lil  yawl  after  you,  Demp- 
ster, when  we  were  seeing  you  a  bit  overside  the  head  yonder 
coming  back.  '  He's  drifting  home  on  the  flowing  tide,'  says 
I,  and  so  you  were.  Must  have  been  a  middling  stiff  pull  for 
all.     We  were  thinking  you  were  lost  one  while  there. " 

"  I  was  almost  lost,  but  I'm  here  again,  thank  God,"  said 
Philip. 

He  spoke  cheerily,  and  went  away  with  a  light  step.  It 
was  now  full  night  ;  the  town  was  lit  up,  and  the  musicians 
of  the  pavement  were  twanging  their  banjos  and  harps.  Philip 
felt  a  sort  of  physical  regeneration,  a  renewal  of  3'outh,  a  new 
birth  of  heart  and  hope.  He  was  like  a  man  coming  out  of 
some  hideous  Gehenna  of  delirious  illness  ;  he  though  he  had 
never  been  so  light,  so  buoyant,  so  happy  in  his  life  before. 
The  future  was  vague.  He  did  not  yet  know  what  he  would 
do.  It  would  be  something  radical,  something  that  would  go 
down  to  the  heart  of  his  condition.  Oh,  he  would  be  strong, 
he  would  be  resolute,  he  would  pay  the  uttermost  farthing,  he 
would  not  wait  to  count  the  cost.  And  she — she  would  be 
with  him.     He  could  do  nothing  without  her.     The  partner 


MAN   AND   MAN.  429 

of  his   fault   would   share  his   redoniption    also,     (lod   bless 
her  1 

He  let  himself  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door  firmly  be- 
hind him.  The  lights  were  still  burning:  in  the  hall,  so  it  was 
not  very  late.  He  mounted  the  stairs  with  a  loud  step  and 
swung  into  his  room.  The  lamp  was  on  the  table,  and  williin 
the  circle  cast  by  its  blue  shade  a  letter  was  lying.  He  took 
it  up  with  dismay.     It  was  in  Kate's  handwriting  : — 

"Forgive  me  !  I  am  going  away.  It  is  all  my  fault.  I 
have  broken  the  heart  of  one  man,  and  I  am  desiroj'ing  the 
.soul  of  another.  If  I  stay  here  any  longer  you  will  be  ruined 
and  lost.  I  am  only  a  millstone  about  your  neck.  I  see  it,  I 
feel  it.  And  yet  I  have  loved  you  so,  and  wished  to  be  so 
proud  of  you.  Your  heart  is  brave  enough,  though  I  have 
sunk  it  down  so  low.  You  will  live  to  be  strong  and  good 
and  true,  though  that  can  never  be  while  I  am  with  you.  I 
have  been  far  below  you  from  the  first.  All  along  I  have 
only  been  thinking  how  much  I  loved  you,  but  you  have  had 
so  many  other  things  to  consider.  My  life  seems  to  have  been 
one  long  battle  for  love.  I  think  it  has  been  a  cruel  battle 
too.     Anyway,  I  am  beaten,  and  oh  !  so  tired. 

"  Do  not  follow  me.  I  pray  of  you  do  not  try  to  find  me. 
It  is  my  last  request.  Think  of  me  as  on  a  long  journey.  I 
may  be — the  Great  God  of  heaven  knows. 

"I  am  taking  the  little  cracked  medallion  from  the  bottom 
of  the  oak  box.  It  is  the  only  picture  I  can  find,  and  it  will 
remind  me  of  some  one  else  as  well— my  little  Katherine,  my 
motherless  baby. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  leave  with  you  but  this  (it  was  a  lock 
of  her  hair).  At  first  I  thought  of  the  wedding-ring  that  you 
gave  me  when  I  came  here,  hut  it  would  not  come  off,  and 
besides,  I  could  not  part  with  it. 

"Good-bye  !  I  ought  to  have  done  this  long  ago,  lUit 
you  will  not  hate  me  now  ?  We  could  never  be  happy  to- 
gether again.     Good-bye  ! " 


PART  VL 
MAN  AND   GOD, 


I. 

The  summer  had  gone,  the  gorse  had  dried  up,  the  herring- 
fishing  had  ended,  and  Pete  had  become  poor.  His  Nickey 
had  done  nothing,  his  last  hundred  pounds  had  been  spent, 
and  his  creditors  in  scores,  quiet  as  mice  until  then,  were  bay- 
ing about  him  like  bloodhounds.  He  sold  his  boat  and  satis- 
fied everybody,  but  fell,  nevertheless,  to  the  position  of  a 
person  of  no  credit  and  little  consequence.  On  the  lips  of  the 
people  he  descended  from  "  Capt'n  Pete "  to  Peter  Bridget. 
When  he  saluted  the  rich  with  "  How  do  ?"  they  replied  with 
a  stare,  a  lift  of  the  chin,  and  "  You've  the  odds  of  me,  my 
good  man."  To  this  he  replied,  with  a  roll  of  the  head 
and  a  peal  of  laughter,  "  Have  I  now  ?  But  you'll  die 
for  all." 

Ballajora  Chapel  had  been  three  months  rehearsing  a  chil- 
dren's cantata  entitled  ''  Under  the  Palms,"  and  building  an 
arbour  of  palm  branches  on  a  platform  for  Pete's  rugged  form 
to  figure  in ;  but  Caesar  sat  there  instead. 

Still,  Pete  had  his  six  thousand  pounds  in  mortgage  on 
Ballawhaine.  Only  three  other  persons  knew  anything  of 
that — Caesar,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  saying  nothing; 
Peter  Christian  himself,  who  was  hardly  likely  to  tell;  and 
the  High  Bailiff,  who  was  a  bachelor  and  a  miser,  and  kept  all 
business  revelations  as  sacred  as  are  the  secrets  of  another 
kind  of  confessional.  When  Pete's  evil  day  came  and  the 
world  showed  no  pity,  Caesar  became  afraid. 

"I  wouldn't  sell  out,  sir,"  said  he.  "Hould  on  till  Martin- 
mas, anyway.  The  first  half  year's  interest  is  due  then. 
There's  no  knowing  what'll  happen  before  that.  What's  it 
saying,  'He  shall  give  His  angels  charge  concerning  thee.' 

(4.30) 


MAN   AND   (JOI).  431 

Tlic  ould  man  lias  bad  a  polatic  stroke,  tlioy'ro  tolliiir,'  inc. 
Aw,  the  Lord's  mercy  ondiirt'tli  for  ever." 

Pete  began  to  sell  bis  furniture.  He  cleared  out  the  par- 
lour as  bare  as  a  vault.  "  Time  for  it,  too,"  he  said.  "  I've 
been  wanting  the  room  for  a  workshop." 

Martinmas  came,  and  Ciusar  returned  in  high  feather. 
"No  interest,"  be  said.  "Give  him  the  montb's  grace,  and 
hould  bard  till  it's  over.  The  Lord  will  i)rovidc.  Isn't  it 
written,  *  In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation '  ?  Things 
are  doing  wonderful,  though.  Last  night  going  home  from 
Ballajora,  I  saw  the  corpse-lights  coming  from  the  big  house 
to  Kirk  Christ's  Cburchj'ard,  with  the  parson  psalming  in 
front  of  them.  The  ould  man's  dying — I've  seen  his  soul. 
To  thy  name,  O  Lord,  be  all  the  glory." 

Pete  sold  out  a  second  room,  and  turned  the  key  on  it. 
"  Mortal  cosy  and  small  this  big,  ugly  mansion  is  getting, 
Nancy,"  he  said. 

The  month's  grace  allowed  by  the  deed  of  mortgage  ex- 
pired, and  Caesar  came  to  Elm  Cottage  rubbing  both  hands. 
"  Turn  him  out,  neck  and  crop,  sir.  Not  a  penny  left  to  the 
man,  and  six  thousand  goolden  pounds  paid  into  his  hands 
seven  months  ago.  But  who's  wondering  at  that  ?  There's 
Ross  back  again,  carrying  half  a  ton  of  his  friends  over  the 
island,  and  lashing  out  the  silver  like  dust.  Your  silver,  sir, 
yours.  And  here's  youi'self,  with  the  world  darkening  round 
you  terrible.  But  no  fear  of  you  now.  The  meek  shall  in- 
herit the  earth.  Aw,  God  is  opening  His  word  more  and 
more,  sir,  more  and  more.  There's  that  Black  Tom  too.  He 
was  talking  big  a  piece  back,  but  this  morning  he  was  uj)  be- 
fore the  High  Bailiff  for  charming  and  cheating,  and  was  put 
away  for  the  Dempster.  Lord  keep  him  from  the  gallows  and 
hell-fire!  Oh,  it's  a  refreshing  saison.  It  was  God  spaking  to 
me  by  Providence  wben  I  tould  you  to  put  mcmey  on  tliat 
mortgage.  What's  the  Scripture  saying.  'For  brass  I  bring 
thee  goold'  ?    Turn  him  out,  sir,  turn  him  out." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  ould  Ballawhaine  had  a  polatic 
stroke  ? "  said  Pete. 

"I  did:  but  he's  a  big  man;  let  him  pay  his  way,"  said  Caesar. 

"Samson  was  a  strong  man,  and  Solomon  was  a  wise  one, 
but  they  couldn't  pay  money  when  they  hadn't  got  it,"  said 
Pete. 


432  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Let  him  look  to  his  son  then,"  said  Caesar. 

"That's  just  what  he's  going  to  do,"  said  Pete.  "Ill  let 
him  die  in  his  bed,  God  forgive  him." 

The  winter  came,  and  Pete  began  to  think  of  buying  a 
Dandie,  which  being  smaller  than  a  Nickey,  and  of  yawl  rig, 
he  could  sail  of  himself,  and  so  earn  a  living  by  fishing  the 
cod.  To  do  this  he  had  a  further  clearing  of  furniture,  there- 
by reducing  the  size  of  the  house  to  three  rooms.  The  feather- 
bed left  his  own  bedstead,  the  watch  came  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  the  walls  of  the  haU -kitchen  gaped  and  yawned  in  the 
places  where  the  pictures  had  been. 

"  The  bog-bane  to  the  rushy  curragh,  say  I,  Nancy,"  said 
Pete.  "Not  being  used  of  such  grandeur,  I  was  taking  it 
hard.  Never  could  remember  to  wind  that  watch.  And 
feathers,  bless  you !  Don't  I  remember  the  lil  mother,  with  a 
sickle  and  a  bag,  going  cutting  the  long  grass  on  the  steep 
brews  for  the  cow,  and  drying  a  handful  for  myself  for  a  bed. 
Sleeping  on  it  ?    Never  slept  the  like  since  at  all." 

The  result  of  Pete's  first  week's  fishing  was  twenty  cod  and 
a  gigantic  ling.  He  packed  the  cod  in  boxes  and  sent  them 
by  Crow  and  the  steam-packet  to  the  market  in  Liverpool. 
The  ling  he  swung  on  his  back  over  his  oilskin  jacket  and 
carried  it  home,  the  head  at  his  shoulder  and  the  tail  dangling 
at  his  legs. 

"  There  !  "  he  cried,  dropping  it  on  the  floor,  "  split  it  and 
salt  it,  and  you've  breakfas'es  for  a  month." 

When  the  remittance  came  from  Liverpool  it  was  a  postal 
order  for  seven-and-sixpence. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Pete  ;  "  we're  bating  Dan  Hommy 
anyway — the  ould  muff  has  only  made  seven-and-a-penny." 

The  weather  was  rough,  the  fishing  was  bad,  the  tackle  got 
broken,  and  Pete  began  to  extol  plain  living. 

"Gough  bless  me,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  in  the  world 
what's  coming  to  the  ould  island  at  all.  When  I  was  for  a 
man-servant  with  Caesar  the  farming  boys  were  ateing  pota- 
toes and  herrings  three  times  a  day.  But  now  !  butcher's 
mate  every  dinner-time,  if  you  plaze.  And  tay  !  the  girls 
must  be  having  it  reg'lar — and  taking  no  shame  with  them 
neither.  My  sakes,  I  remember  when  the  mother  would  be 
whispering,  '  Keep  an  eye  on  the  road,  boy,  while  I'm  brewing 
myself  a  cup  of  tay.'    Truth  enough,  Nancy.     An  ounce  a 


MAN  AND  GOD.  433 

week  and  a  pound  of  su^^ar,  and  people  wondering  at  llio 
woman  for  that.'' 

The  mountains  were  taken  from  the  people,  and  they  were 
no  longer  allowed  to  cut  turf  for  fuel  ;  coals  werc  dear,  the 
winter  was  cold,  and  Pete  began  to  coin])lain  of  a  loss  of  ap- 
petite. 

"  My  teeth  must  be  getting  bad,  Nancy,"  he  whined.  They 
were  white  as  milk  and  faultless  as  a  negro's.  '*  Don't  do- 
mesticate my  food  somehow.  What's  the  odds,  though  ? 
Can't  ate  suppers  at  all,  and  that's  some  constilation.  Noth- 
ing like  going  to  bed  hungry,  Nancy,  if  you're  wanting  to  get 
up  with  an  appetite  for  breakfast.  Then  the  beautiful  drames, 
woman  !  Gough  bless  me,  the  dinners  and  the  feasts  and 
the  bankets  you're  ateing  in  your  sleep  !  Now,  if  you  iilled 
your  skin  like  a  High  Bailiff  afore  going  to  bed,  ten  to 
one  you'd  have  a  buggane  riding  on  your  breast  the 
night  through  and  drame  of  dying  for  a  drink  of  wa- 
ter. Aw,  sleep's  a  reg'lar  Radical.  Good  for  levelling  up, 
anyway." 

Christmas  approached,  servants  boasted  of  the  Christmas 
boxes  they  got  from  their  masters,  and  Pete  remembered 
Nancy. 

"  Nancy,"  said  he,  "  they're  telling  me  Liza  Billy-ny-Clae  is 
getting  twenty  pound  per  year  per  annum  at  her  new  situa- 
tion in  Douglas.  She  isn't  nothing  to  yourself  at  cooking. 
Mustn't  let  the  lil  one  stand  in  your  way,  woman.  She's  get- 
ting a  big  girl  now,  and  I'll  be  taking  her  out  in  the  Dandie 
with  me  and  tying  her  down  on  the  low  deck  there  and  giving 
her  a  pig's  bladder,  and  she'll  be  playing  away  as  nice  as  nice. 
See  ? " 

Nancy  looked  at  Lim,  and  he  dro})ped  his  eyes  before 
her. 

"  Is  it  wanting  to  get  done  with  me,  you  are,  Pete  ?"  she 
said  in  a  quavering  voice.  "There's  my  black — I  can  sell  it 
for  something — it's  nev^er  been  wore  at  me  since  I  sat  through 
the  sarvice  with  Grannie  the  Sunday  after  we  got  news  of 
Kirry.  And  I'm  not  a  big  eater,  Pete — never  was — you  can 
clear  me  of  that  anyway.  A  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  for  my 
dinner  when  you  are  out  at  the  fishing,  and  I'm  asking  no 
better " 

"Hould  your  tongue,  woman,"  cried  Pete.     "Hould  your 


434  THE  MANXMAN. 

tongns  afore  you  break  my  heart.  I've  seen  my  rich  days 
and  I've  seen  my  poor  days.  I've  tried  both,  and  I'm  con- 
tent." 


n. 

Meantime,  Philip  in  Doug-las  was  going  from  success  to 
success,  from  rank  to  rank,  from  fame  to  fame.  Everything 
he  put  his  hand  to  counted  to  him  for  righteousness.  When 
he  came  to  himself  after  the  disappearance  of  Kate,  his  heart 
was  a  wasted  field  of  volcanic  action,  with  ashes  and  scoriae  of 
infernal  blackness  on  the  surface,  but  the  wholesome  soil  be- 
neath. In  spite  of  her  injunction,  he  set  himself  to  look  for 
her.  More  than  love,  more  than  pity,  more  than  remorse 
prompted  and  supported  him.  She  was  necessary  to  his  resur- 
rection, to  his  new  birth.  So  he  scoured  every  poor  quarter 
of  the  town,  every  rookery  of  old  Douglas,  and  this  was  set 
down  to  an  interest  in  the  poor. 

An  epidemic  broke  out  on  the  island,  and  during  the  scare 
that  followed,  wherein  some  of  the  wealthy  left  their  homes 
for  England,  and  many  of  the  poor  betook  themselves  to  the 
mountains,  and  even  certain  of  the  doctors  found  refuge  in 
flight,  Philip  won  golden  opinions  for  presence  of  mind  and 
personal  courage.  He  organised  a  system  of  registration, 
regulated  quarantine,  and  caused  the  examination  of  every- 
body coming  to  the  island  or  leaving  it.  From  day  to  day  he 
went  from  house  to  house,  from  hospital  to  hospital,  from 
ward  to  ward.  No  dangers  terrified  him  ;  he  seemed  to  keep 
his  eye  on  each  case.  He  was  only  looking  for  Kate,  only  as- 
suring himself  that  she  had  not  fallen  victim  to  the  pest,  only 
making  certain  that  she  had  not  come  or  gone.  But  the  di- 
vine madness  which  seizes  upon  a  crowd  when  its  heart  is 
touched  laid  hold  of  the  island  at  the  sight  of  Philip's  activi- 
ties. He  was  worshipped,  he  was  beloved,  he  was  the  idol  of 
the  poor,  almost  everybody  else  was  forgotten  in  the  splendour 
of  his  fame  ;  no  committee  could  proceed  without  him  ;  no 
list  was  complete  until  it  included  his  name. 

Philip  was  ashamed  of  his  glories,  but  he  had  no  heart  to  re- 
pudiate them.  When  the  epidemic  subsided,  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  Kate  must  be  gone,  that  she  must  be  dead.  Gone, 
therefore,  was  his  only  hold  on  life,  and  dead  was  his  hope  of 


MAN   AND   COD.  4;^5 

a  moral  resurrection.  lie  could  do  iiothin|T:  without  her  but 
go  on  as  he  was  proing.  To  prcteud  to  a  new  birth  now  would 
be  like  a  death-bed  conversion  ;  it  would  be  like  renouncin<^ 
the  joys  of  life  after  they  have  renounced  the  renouncer. 

His  colleague,  the  old  Deemster,  was  stricken  down  by 
paralysis,  and  he  was  required  to  attend  to  both  their  duties. 
This  made  it  necessary  at  first  that  all  Deemster's  Courts 
should  be  held  in  Castletown,  and  hence  Ramsey  saw  him 
rarely.  He  spent  his  days  in  the  Court-house  of  the  Ca.stle 
and  his  nights  at  home.  His  fair  hair  became  prematurely 
white,  and  his  face  grew  more  than  ever  like  that  of  a  man 
newly  risen  from  a  fever. 

"  Study,"  said  the  world,  and  it  bowed  its  head  the  lower. 

Yet  he  was  seen  to  be  not  only  a  studious  man,  but  a  mel- 
ancholy one.  To  defeat  curiosity,  he  began  to  enter  a  little 
into  the  life  of  the  island,  and,  as  time  went  on,  to  engage  in 
some  of  the  social  duties  of  his  official  position.  On  Christmas 
Eve  he  gave  a  reception  at  his  house  in  Athol  Street.  He  had 
hardly  realised  how  it  would  tear  at  the  tenderest  fibres  of 
memory.  The  very  rooms  that  had  been  Kate's  were  given 
over  to  the  ladies  who  were  his  guests.  All  afternoon  the 
crush  was  great,  and  the  host  was  the  attraction.  He  was  a 
fascinating  figure— so  young,  yet  already  so  high ;  so  silent, 
yet  able  to  speak  so  splendidly;  and  then  so  handsome  with 
that  whitening  head,  and  that  smile  like  vanishing  sun- 
shine. 

In  the  midst  of  the  reception,  Philip  received  a  letter  from 
Ramsey  that  was  like  the  cry  of  a  bleeding  heart : — 

'•  My  lil  one  is  ill  theyr  sayin  shes  Diein  cum  to  me  for  gods 
sake.— Peat." 

The  snow  was  beginning  to  fall  as  the  guests  departed. 
When  the  last  of  them  was  gone,  the  clock  on  the  bureau  was 
striking  six,  and  the  night  was  closing  in.  By  eight  o'clock 
Philip  was  at  Elm  Cottage. 


436  THE  MANXMAN. 


III. 


Pete  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  unwashed,  un- 
combed, with  his  clothes  half  buttoned  and  his  shoes  unlaced. 

"  Phil  ! "  he  cried,  and  leaping  up  he  took  Philip  by  both 
hands  and  fell  to  sobbing  like  a  child. 

They  went  upstairs  together.  The  bedroom  was  dense  with 
steam,  and  the  forms  of  two  women  were  floating  like  figures 
in  a  fog. 

''  There  she  is,  the  bogh,"  cried  Pete  in  a  pitiful  w^ail. 

The  child  lay  outstretched  on  Grannie's  lap,  with  no  sign 
of  consciousness,  and  hardly  any  sign  of  life,  except  the  hollow 
breathing  of  bronchitis. 

Philip  felt  a  strange  emotion  come  over  him.  He  sat  on 
the  end  of  the  bed  and  looked  down.  The  little  face,  with  its 
twitching  mouth  and  pinched  nostrils,  beating  with  every 
breath,  was  the  face  of  Kate.  The  little  head,  with  its  round 
forehead  and  the  silvery  hair  brushed  back  from  the  temples, 
was  his  own  head.  A  mysterious  thi'ob  surprised  him,  a  great 
tenderness,  a  deep  yearning,  something  new  to  him.  and  born 
as  it  Avere  in  his  breast  at  that  instant.  He  had  an  impulse? 
never  felt  before,  to  go  down  on  his  knees  where  the  child  lay, 
to  take  it  in  his  arms,  to  draw  it  to  him,  to  fondle  it,  to  call  it 
his  own,  and  to  pour  over  it  the  inarticulate  babble  of  pain 
and  love  that  was  bursting  from  his  tongue.  But  some  one 
was  kneeling  there  already,  and  in  his  jealous  longing  he  real- 
ised that  his  passionate  sorrow  could  have  no  voice. 

Pete,  at  Grannie's  lap,  was  stroking  the  child's  arm  and  her 
forehead  with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman. 

"  The  bogh  millish  !  Seems  aisier  now,  doesn't  she.  Gran- 
nie ?    Quieter,  anyway  ?    Not  coughing  so  much,  is  she  ? " 

The  doctor  came  at  the  moment,  and  Ca?sar  entered  the 
room  behind  him  with  a  face  of  funereal  resignation. 

"See,"  cried  Pete;  '' there's  your  lil  patient,  doctor.  She's 
lying  as  quiet  as  quiet,  and  hasn't  coughed  to  spake  of  for  bet- 
ter than  an  hour."' 

"  H'm  ! "  said  the  doctor  ominously.  He  looked  at  the 
child,  made  some  inquiries  of  Grannie,  gave  certain  instruc- 
tions to  Nancy,  and  then  lifted  his  head  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  we've  done  all  we  can  for  her,"  he  said.  "  If  the 
child  lives  through  the  night  she  may  get  over  it." 


MAN   AND  (J()I>.  .j;;7 

The  women  threw  up  tlieir  hands  witli  "  Aw,  doiu\  aw, 
dear  I*'  Philip  gave  a  low,  sharp  cry  of  pain;  but  Pete,  wlio 
had  been  breathing  heavily,  watching  intently,  and  holding 
his  arms  about  the  little  one  as  if  he  would  save  it  from  dis- 
ease and  death  and  heaven  itself,  now  lost  himself  in  the  im- 
mensity of  his  woe. 

"Tut,  doctor,  what  are  you  saying  ?  "  he  Siiid.  "You  wore 
alwaj^s  took  for  a  knowledgable  man,  doctor;  but  youVe  talk- 
ing nonsense  now.  Don't  you  see  the  child's  only  sleeping 
comfortable  ?  And  haven't  I  told  you  she  hasn't  coughed  any- 
thing worth  for  an  hour  ?  Do  you  think  a  poor  fellow's  got 
no  sense  at  all  ?  " 

The  doctor  was  a  patient  man  as  well  as  a  wise  one — he 
left  the  room  without  a  word.  But,  thinking  to  pour  oil  on 
Pete's  wounds,  and  not  minding  that  his  oil  was  vitriol,  Ca3sar 
said— 

"  If  it's  the  Lord's  will,  it's  His  will,  sir.  The  sins  of  the 
fathers  are  visited  upon  the  children— yes,  and  the  mothers, 
too,  God  forgive  them." 

At  that  Pete  leapt  to  his  feet  in  a  flame  of  wrath. 

"  You  lie  !  you  lie  I ''  he  cried.  "  God  doesn't  ])unish  the 
innocent  for  the  guilty.  If  He  does.  He's  not  a  good  God  but 
a  bad  one.  Why  should  this  child  be  made  to  suffer  and  die 
for  the  sin  of  its  mother  ?  Aye,  or  its  father  either  ?  Show 
me  the  man  that  would  make  it  do  the  like,  and  I'll  smash  his 
head  against  the  wall.  Blaspheming,  am  I  ?  No,  but  it's  you 
that's  blaspheming.  God  is  good,  God  is  just,  God  is  in 
heaven,  and  you  are  making  Him  out  no  God  at  all,  but  woi'se 
than  the  blackest  devil  that's  in  hell." 

Caesar  went  off  in  horror  of  Pete's  profanities.  "  If  the 
Lord  keep  not  the  city,"  he  said, "  the  watchman  waketh  in  vain." 

Pete's  loud  voice  had  aroused  the  child.  It  made  a  littler 
cry,  and  he  was  all  softness  in  an  instant.  The  woimii 
moistened  its  lips  with  barley-water,  and  hushed  its  fretful 
whimper. 

'•Come,"  said  Philip,  tiiking  Pete's  arm. 

"Let  me  lean  on  you,  Philip,"  said  Pete,  and  the  stalwart 
fellow  went  tottering  down  the  stairs. 

They  sat  on  opjx)site  sides  of  the  firei)lace,  and  kept  the  stair- 
case door  open  that  they  might  hear  all  that  happened  in  tlie 
room  above. 


4:38  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  Get  thee  to  bed,  Nancy,"  said  the  voice  of  Grannie.  "  Dear 
knows  how  soon  j^ou'll  be  wanted." 

"You'll  be  calling  me  for  twelve,  then,  Grannie— now, 
mind,  you'll  be  calling  me." 

"  Poor  Pete  !  He's  not  so  far  wrong,  though.  What's  it 
saying  ?     '  SufiPer  lil  childei*s' " 

"  But  CaBsar  s  right  enough  this  time,  Grannie.  The  bogh 
is  took  for  death  as  sure  as  sure.  I  saw  the  crow  that  was  at 
the  wedding  going  crossing  the  child's  head  the  very  last  time 
she  was  out  of  doors."  Pete  was  listening  intently.  Philip 
was  gazing  passively  into  the  fire. 

''  I  couldn't  help  it,  sir— I  couldn't  really."  whispered  Pete 
across  the  hearth.  "When  a  man's  got  a  child  that's  ill,  they 
may  talk  about  saving  souls,  but  what's  the  constilation  in 
that  ?  It's  not  the  soul  he's  wanting  saving  at  all,  it's  the 
child — now,  isn't  it,  now  ? " 

Philip  made  some  confused  response. 

"  Coorse,  I  can't  expect  you  to  undei^tand  that,  Philip. 
You're  a  grand  man,  and  a  clever  man,  and  a  feeling  man,  but 
I  can't  expect  you  to  understand  that— now,  is  it  likely  ?  The 
greenest  gall's  egg  of  a  father  that  isn't  half  wise  has  the  pull 
of  you  there,  Phil.  'Deed  he  has,  though.  When  a  man  has 
a  child  of  his  own  he's  knowing  what  it  manes,  the  Lord  help 
him.  Something  calls  to  him — it's  like  blood  calling  to  blood 
— it's  like  ...  I  don't  know  that  I'm  understanding  it  myself, 
neither — not  to  say  understand  exactly." 

Every  word  that  Pete  spoke  was  like  a  sword  turning  both 
ways.     Philip  drew  his  breath  heavily. 

"You  can  feel  for  another,  Phil— the  Lord  forbid  you 
should  ever  feel  for  yourself.  Books  are  your  children,  and 
they're  best  off  that's  never  having  no  better.  But  the  lil  ones 
— God  help  them— to  see  them  fail,  and  suffer,  and  sink— and 
you  not  able  to  do  nothing— and  themselves  calling  to  you— 
calling  still— calling  reg'lar — calling  out  of  mercy — the  way  I 
am  telling  of.  anyway — O  God !     O  God  1 " 

Philip's  throat  rose.  He  felt  as  if  he  must  betray  himself 
the  next  instant. 

"  Perhaps  the  doctor  was  right  for  all.  Maybe  the  child 
isn't  willing  to  stay  with  us  now  the  mother  is  gone;  maybe 
it's  wanting  away,  poor  thing.  And  who  knows  ?  Wouldn't 
trust  but  the  mother  is  waiting  for  the  lil  bogh  yonder — wait- 


MAN  AND  (JOI).  439 

ing  and  waiting  on  llie  shore  there,  and  'ticing  and  'ticing — 
I've  heard  of  the  like,  anyway." 

Philip  groaned.  His  brain  reeled;  his  legs  grew  cold  as 
stones.  A  great  awe  came  over  him.  It  was  not  Pete  alone 
that  he  was  encountering.  In  these  searchings  and  rendiiigs 
of  the  heart,  which  uncovered  every  thought  and  tore  open 
every  wound,  he  was  entering  the  lists  with  God  himself. 

The  church  bell  began  to  ring. 

"  What's  that  ? "  cried  Philip.  It  had  struck  upon  his  ear 
like  a  knell. 

"Oiel  Verree,"  said  Pete.  The  bell  was  ringing  for  the 
old  Manx  service  for  the  singing  of  Christmas  carols.  The 
fibres  of  Pete's  memory  were  touched  by  it.  He  told  of  his 
Christmases  abroad — how  it  was  summer  instead  of  winter, 
and  fruits  were  on  the  trees  instead  of  snow  on  the  ground  — 
how  people  who  had  never  spoken  to  him  before  would  shake 
hands  and  wish  him  a  merry  Christmas.  Then  from  sheer 
weariness  and  a  sense  of  utter  desolation,  broken  by  the  com- 
fort of  Philip's  company,  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair. 

The  night  wore  on  ;  the  house  was  quiet  ;  only  the  husky 
rasping  of  the  child's  hurried  breathing  came  from  the  floor 
above. 

An  evil  thought  in  the  guise  of  a  pious  one  took  possession 
of  Philip.  "  God  is  wise,"  he  told  himself.  "God  is  merciful. 
He  knows  what  is  best  for  all  of  us.  What  are  we.  poor  im- 
potent grasshoppers,  that  we  dare  pray  to  Him  to  change  His 
great  purposes  ?  It  is  idle.  It  is  impious.  .  .  .  While  the 
child  lives  there  will  be  security  for  no  one.  If  it  dies,  there 
will  be  peace  and  rest  and  the  beginning  of  content.  The 
mother  must  be  gone  already,  so  the  dark  chapter  of  our  lives 
will  be  closed  at  last.     God  is  all  wise.     God  is  all  good." 

The  child  made  a  feeble  cry,  and  Philip  crept  upstairs  to 
look.  Grannie  had  dozed  ofiP  in  her  seat,  and  little  Katherine 
was  on  the  bed.  A  disregarded  doll  lay  with  inverted  head 
on  the  counterpane.  The  fire  had  slid  and  died  down  to  a 
lifeless  glow,  and  the  kettle  had  ceased  to  steam.  There  was 
no  noise  in  the  room  save  the  child's  galloping  breathing, 
which  seemed  to  scrape  the  walls  as  with  a  file.  Sometimes 
there  was  a  cough  that  came  like  a  voice  through  a  fog. 

Philip  crept  in  noiselessly,  knelt  down  by  the  bed-head, 
and  leaned  over  the  pillow.     A  candle  which  burned  on  the 


440  THE  MANXMAN. 

mantelpiece  cast  its  light  on  the  head  that  lay  there.  The 
little  face  was  drawn,  the  little  pinched  nostrils  were  beating 
like  a  pulse,  the  little  lip  beneath  was  beaded  with  perspira- 
tion, the  beautiful  round  forehead  was  damp,  and  the  silken 
silvery  hair  was  matted. 

Philip  thought  the  child  must  be  dying,  and  his  ugly  piety 
gave  way.  There  was  a  movement  on  the  bed.  One  little 
hand  that  had  been  clenched  hard  on  the  breast  came  over 
the  counterpane  and  fell,  outstretched  and  open  before  him. 
He  took  it  for  an  appeal,  a  dumb  and  piteous  appeal,  and  the 
smothered  tenderness  of  the  father's  heart  came  uppermost. 
Her  child,  his  child,  dj'ing,  and  he  there,  yet  not  daring  to 
claim  her  ! 

A  new  fear  took  hold  of  him.  He  had  been  wrong — there 
could  be  no  security  in  the  child's  death,  no  peace,  no  rest,  no 
content.  As  surely  as  the  child  died  he  w^ould  betray  himself. 
He  would  blurt  it  all  out ;  he  would  tell  everything.  "  My 
child  I  my  darling  !  my  Kate's  Kate  ! "  The  cry  would  burst 
from  him.  He  could  not  help  it.  And  to  reveal  the  black 
secret  at  the  mouth  of  an  open  grave  would  be  terrible,  it 
would  be  horrible,  it  would  be  awful.  "  Spare  her,  0  Lord, 
spare  her  I  " 

In  a  fear  bordering  on  delirium  he  went  downstairs  and 
shook  Pete  by  the  shouldei's  to  awaken  him.  "  Come  quickly," 
he  said. 

Pete  opened  his  eyes  with  a  bewildered  look.  "  She's  bet- 
ter, isn't  she  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Courage,"  said  Philip. 

"  Is  she  worse  ? " 

"  It's  life  or  death  now.  We  must  try  something  that  I  saw 
when  1  was  away." 

"Good  Lord,  and  I've  been  sleeping  I  Save  her,  Philip  I 
You're  great ;  your  clever " 

"  Be  quiet,  for  God's  sake,  my  good  fellow  !  Quick,  a  ket- 
tle of  boiling  water — a  blanket — some  hot  towels." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  friend,  you'll  save  her.  The  doctors  don't 
know  nothing." 

Ten  minutes  afterwards*  the  child  made  a  feeble  cry, 
coughed  loosely,  threw  up  phlegm,  and  came  out  of  the 
drowsy  land  which  it  had  inhabited  for  a  week.  In  ten  min- 
utes more  it  was  wrapped  in  the  hot  towels  and  sitting  on 


MAN  AND  GOD.  .141 

Pete's  knee  before  a  brisk  fire,  opening  its  little  eyes  and  purs- 
ing: its  little  mouth,  and  niakin<^  some  inarticulate  conununi- 
cation. 

Then  Grannie  awoke  with  a  start,  and  reproached  liersclf 
for  sleeping.  "  But  dear  heart  alive,"  she  cried,  with  both 
hands  up,  "the  bogh  villish  is  mended  w(mderful." 

Nancy  came  back  in  her  stockings,  blinking  and  yawning. 
She  clapped  and  crowed,  at  sight  of  the  chiUrs  altered  face. 
The  clock  in  the  kitdien  was  striking  twelve  by  this  time,  the 
bells  had  begun  to  ring  again,  the  carol  singers  were  coming 
out  of  the  church,  there  was  a  sound  on  the  light  snow  of  the 
street  like  the  running  of  a  shallow  river,  and  tlie  waits  were 
being  sung  for  the  dawn  of  another  Christmas. 

The  doctor  looked  in  on  his  way  home,  and  congratulated 
himself  on  the  improved  condition.  The  crisis  was  passed,  the 
child  was  safe. 

"  Ah  !  better,  better,"  he  said  cheerily.  "  I  thought  we 
might  manage  it  this  time." 

"  It  was  the  Dempster  that  done  it,"  cried  Pete.  He  was 
cooing  and  blowing  at  little  Katherine  over  the  fringe  of  her 
towels.  "He  couldn't  have  done  more  for  the  lil  one  if  she'd 
been  his  own  flesh  and  blood." 

Philip  dared  not  speak.  He  hurried  away  in  a  storm  of 
emotion.  "  Not  yet,"  he  thought,  "  not  yet."  The  time  of  his 
discovery  was  not  yet.  It  was  like  Death,  though — it  waited 
for  him  somewhere.  Somewhere  and  at  some  time — someday 
in  the  year,  some  place  on  the  earth.  Perhaps  his  eyes  knew 
the  date  in  the  calendar,  perhaps  his  feet  knew  the  spot  on  the 
land,  yet  he  knew  neither.  Somewhere  and  at  some  time — 
God  knew  where— God  knew  when — He  kept  his  own  secrets. 

That  night  Philip  slept  at  the  "  Mitre,"  and  next  morning 
he  went  up  to  Ballure. 

IV. 

The  Governor  could  not  forget  Tynwald.  Exaggei-ating 
the  humiliation  of  that  day,  he  thought  his  influence  in  the 
island  was  gone.  He  sold  his  horses  and  carriages,  and  other- 
wise behaved  like  a  man  who  expected  to  be  recalled. 

Towards  Philip  he  showed  no  malice.  It  was  not  merely 
as  the  author  of  his  shame  that  Philip  had  disappointed  him. 


442  THE  MANXMAN. 

He  liad  half  clierished  a  hope  that  Philip  would  become  his 
son-in-law.  But  w^hen  the  rod  in  his  hand  had  failed  him, 
when  it  proved  too  big  for  a  staff  and  too  rough  for  a  crutch, 
he  did  not  attempt  to  break  it.  Either  from  the  instinct  of 
a  gentleman,  or  the  pride  of  a  strong  man,  he  continued  to 
shower  his  favours  upon  Philip.  Going  to  London  with  his 
wife  and  daughter  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year,  he  ap- 
pointed Philip  to  act  as  his  deputy. 

Philip  did  not  abuse  his  powders.  As  grandson  of  the  one 
great  Manxman  of  his  century,  and  himself  a  man  of  talents, 
he  was  readily  accepted  by  the  island.  His  only  drawback 
was  his  settled  melancholy.  This  added  to  his  interest  if  it 
took  from  his  popularity.  The  ladies  began  to  whisper  that 
he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  that  his  heart  was  "buried  in  the 
grave."  He  did  not  forget  old  comrades.  It  was  remem- 
bered, in  his  favour,  that  one  of  his  friends  was  a  fisherman, 
a  cousin  across  the  bar  of  bastardy,  who  had  been  a  fool  and 
gone  through  his  fortune. 

On  St.  Bridget's  Day  Philip  held  Deemster's  Court  in  Ram- 
sey. The  snow^  had  gone  and  the  earth  had  the  smell  of  vio- 
lets. It  was  almost  as  if  the  violets  themselves  lay  close  be- 
neath the  soil,  and  their  odour  had  been  too  long  kept  under. 
The  sun,  which  had  not  been  seen  for  weeks,  had  burst  out 
that  day  ;  the  air  was  warm,  and  the  sky  was  blue.  Inside 
the  Court-house  the  upper  arcs  of  the  windows  had  been  let 
down  ;  the  sun  shone  on  the  Deemster  as  he  sat  on  the  dais, 
and  the  spring  breeze  played  with  his  silvery  wig.  Some- 
times, in  the  pauses  of  rasping  voices,  the  birds  were  heard  to 
sing  from  the  trees  on  the  lawn  outside. 

The  trial  was  a  tedious  and  protracted  one.  It  was  the 
trial  of  Black  Tom.  During  the  epidemic  that  had  visited  the 
island  he  had  developed  the  character  of  a  witch  doctor.  His 
first  appearance  in  Court  had  been  before  the  High  Bailiff, 
who  had  committed  him  to  prison.  He  had  been  bailed  out 
by  Pete,  and  had  forfeited  his  bail  in  an  attempt  at  flight. 
The  witnesses  were  now  many,  and  some  came  from  a  long 
distance.  It  was  desirable  to  conclude  the  same  day.  At  five 
in  the  evening  the  Deemster  rose  and  said,  "The  Court  will 
adjourn  for  an  hour,  gentlemen." 

Philip  took  his  own  refreshments  in  the  Deemster's  room 
— Jem-y-Lord  was  with  him — then  put  off  his  wig  and  gown, 


MAN   AND  GOD.  443 

and  slipped  througli  tlio  ])ris()ncr.s'  yard  at  the  back  ami  roiiiul 
tlie  corner  to  Elm  Coltafifo. 

It  was  now  quite  dark.  The  house  was  lit  by  the  firelight 
only,  which  flashed  like  Will-o'-the-wisp  on  the  hall  window. 
Philip  was  surprised  by  unusual  sounds.  There  was  lau;j:h- 
ter  within,  then  singing,  and  then  laughter  again.  He  iuul 
reached  the  porch  and  his  approach  had  not  ])ccn  heard.  The 
door  stood  open  aud  he  looked  in  and  listened. 

The  room  was  barer  than  he  had  ever  seen  it— a  table, 
three  chairs,  a  cradle,  a  dresser,  and  a  corner  cupboard. 
Nancy  sat  by  the  fire  with  the  child  on  her  lap.  Pete  was 
squatting  on  the  floor,  which  was  strewn  with  rushes,  and 
singing— 

"  Come,  Bridget,  Saint  Bridget,  come  in  at  my  door. 
The  crock's  on  the  bink,  and  the  rush  is  on  the  floor." 

Then  getting  on  to  all  fours  like  a  great  boy,  and  bobbing  his 
liead  up  and  down  and  making  deep  growls  to  imitate  tlie 
terrors  of  a  wild  beast,  he  made  little  runs  and  plunges  at  the 
child,  who  jumped  and  crowed  in  Nancy's  lap  and  lauglicd 
and  squealed  till  she  "kinked." 

"  Now,  stop,  you  great  omathaun,  stop,"  said  Nancy.  "  It 
isn't  good  for  the  lil  one — 'deed  it  isn't." 

But  Pete  was  too  greedy  of  the  child's  joy  to  deny  himself 
the  delight  of  it.  Making  a  great  low  sweep  of  the  room,  he 
came  back  hopping  on  his  haunches  and  barking  like  a  dog. 
Then  the  child  laughed  till  the  laughter  rolled  like  a  marble 
in  her  little  throat. 

Philip's  own  throat  rose  at  the  sight,  and  his  breast  began 
to  ache.  He  felt  the  same  thrill  as  before — the  same,  yet  dif- 
ferent, more  painful,  more  full  of  jealous  longing.  This  was 
no  place  for  him.  He  thought  he  would  go  away.  But  turn- 
ing on  his  heel,  he  was  seen  by  Pete,  who  was  now  on  his 
back  on  the  floor,  rocking  the  child  up  and  down  like  the 
bellows  of  an  accordion,  and  to  and  fro  like  the  sleigh  of  a 
loom. 

"  My  faith,  the  Dempster  !  Come  in,  sir,  come  in,"  cried 
Pete,  looking  over  his  forehead.  Then,  giving  the  child  back 
to  Nancy,  he  leapt  to  his  feet. 

Philip  entered  with  a  sick  yearning  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair  facing  Nancy. 
29 


444  THE   MANXMAN. 

*'  You're  Tvondering  at  me,  Dempster,  I  know  you  are,  sir," 
said  Pete.  "  'Deed,  but  I'm  wondering  at  myself  as  well.  I 
thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  a  glad  day  again,  and  if  the 
«ky  would  ever  be  blue  I  would  be  breaking  my  heart.  But 
what  is  the  Manx  poet  saying,  sir  ?  '  I  have  no  will  but  Thine, 
O  God.'  That's  me,  sir,  truth  enougli,  and  since  the  lil  one 
has  been  mending  I've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life." 

Philip  muttered  some  commonplace,  and  put  his  thumb 
into  the  baby's  hand.  It  was  sucked  in  by  the  little  fingers  as 
by  the  soft  feelers  of  the  sea-anemone. 

Pete  drew  up  the  third  chair,  and  then  all  interest  was 
centred  on  the  child.     "  She's  growing,"  said  Philip  huskily. 

''  And  getting  wise  ler'ble,"  said  Pete.  "  You  wouldn't  be- 
lave  it,  sii*,  but  that  child's  got  the  head  of  an  almanac.  She 
has,  though.  Listen  here,  sir — what  does  the  cow  say,  dar- 
ling?" 

"  Moo-o,"  said  the  little  one. 

''  Look  at  that  now  !  "  said  Pete  rapturously. 

''She  knows  what  the  dog  says  too,"  said  Naucy.  _"  What 
does  Dempster  say,  bogh  ? " 

"  Bow-wow,"  said  the  child. 

"Bless  me  soul  ! "  said  Pete,  turning  to  Philip  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  child's  supernatural  wisdom.  '' A.nd  there's  Tom 
Hommy's  boy — and  a  fine  lil  fellow  enough  for  all — but  six 
weeks  older  than  this  one,  and  not  a  word  out  of  him  yet." 

Hearing  himself  talked  of,  the  dog  had  come  fi*om  under 
the  table.  The  child  gurgled  down  at  it,  then  made  purring 
noises  at  its  own  feet,  and  wriggled  in  Nancy's  lap. 

"Dear  heart  alive,  if  it's  not  like  nui*sing  an  eel,"  said 
Nancy.  "  Be  quiet,  will  you  ? "  and  the  little  one  was  shaken 
back  to  her  seat. 

"  Aisy  all,  woman,"  said  Pete.  "  She's  just  wanting  her  lil 
shoes  and  stockings  off,  that's  it."  Then  talking  to  the  child. 
"  Um — am — im — lum — la — loo  ?  Just  so !  I  don't  know  ^hat 
that  means  myself,  but  she  does,  j'ou  see.  Aw,  the  child  is 
taiching  me  heaps,  sir.  Listening  to  the  lil  one  I'm  remem- 
bering things.  Well,  we're  only  big  children,  the  best  of  us. 
That's  the  way  the  world's  keeping  young,  and  God  help  it 
when  we're  getting  so  clever  there's  no  child  left  in  us  at  all." 

"  Time  for  young  women  to  be  in  bed,  though,"  said  Nancy, 
getting  up  to  give  the  baby  her  bath. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  445 

"  Let  me  have  a  liould  of  the  rofTue  first,"  said  Pete,  and  as 
Nancy  took  the  child  out  of  the  room,  lie  dragged  at  it  and 
smothered  its  open  mouth  witli  kisses, 

"  Poor  sport  for  you,  sir,  watching  a  foolish  ould  father 
playing  games  with  his  lil  one,''  said  Pete. 

Philip's  answer  was  broken  and  confused.  His  eyes  liad 
begun  to  fill,  and  to  hide  them  he  turned  his  head  aside. 
Thinking  he  was  looking  at  the  empty  places  about  the  walls, 
Pete  began  to  enlarge  on  his  prosperity,  and  to  talk  as  if  he 
were  driving  all  the  trade  of  the  island  before  him. 

"  Wonderful  fishing  now,  Phil.  I'm  exporting  a  power  of 
cod.  Getting  postal  orders  and  stamps,  and  I  don't  know 
what.  Seven-and-sixpence  in  a  single  post  from  Liverpool— 
that's  nothing,  sir,  nothing  at  all." 

Nancy  brought  back  the  child,  whose  silvery  curls  were 
now  damp. 

''  What  I  a  young  lady  coming  in  her  night-dress ! "  cried 
Pete. 

"  Work  enough  I  had  to  get  it  over  her  head,  too,"  said 
Nancy.  "She  wouldn't,  no,  she  wouldn't.  Here,  take  and 
dry  her  hair  by  the  fire  while  I  warm  up  her  supper." 

Pete  rolled  the  sleeves  of  his  jersey  above  his  elbows,  took 
the  child  on  his  knee,  and  rubbed  her  hair  between  his  hands, 
singing — 

"Come,  Bridget,  Saint  Bridget,  come  in  at  my  door." 

Nancy  clattered  about  in  her  clogs,  filled  a  saucepan  with 
bread  and  milk,  and  brought  it  to  the  fire. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Nancy,"  said  Philip,  and  he  leaned  over  and 
held  the  saucepan  above  the  bar.  The  child  watched  him  in- 
tently. 

''Well,  did  you  ever?"  said  Pete.  "The  strange  she's 
making  of  you,  Philip  ?  Don't  you  know  the  gentleman,  dar- 
ling ?    Aw,  but  he's  knowing  you,  though." 

The  saucepan  boiled,  and  Philip  handed  it  back  to  Nancy. 

"Go  to  him  then — away  w^ith  you,"  said  Pete.  "Go  to 
your  godfather.  He'd  have  been  your  name-father  too  if  it 
had  been  a  boy  you'd  been.  Off  you  go!"  and  he  stretched 
out  his  hairy  arms  until  the  child  touched  the  floor. 

Philip  stooped  to  take  the  little  one,  who  first  pranced  and 
beat  the  rushes  with  its  feet  as  with  two  drumsticks,  then  trod 


446  THE  MANXMAN. 

on  its  own  legs,  swirled  about  to  Pete's  arms,  dropped  its  lower 
lip,  and  set  up  a  terrified  outcry. 

"  Ah !  she  knows  her  own  father,  bless  her,"  cried  Pete, 
plucking  the  child  back  to  his  breast. 

Philip  di'opped  his  head  and  laughed.  A  sort  of  creeping 
fear  had  taken  possession  of  him,  as  if  he  felt  remotely  that 
the  child  was  to  be  the  channel  of  his  retribution. 

"Will  you  feed  her  yourself,  Pete  ?"  said  Nancy.  She  was 
coming  up  with  a  saucer,  of  which  she  was  tasting  the  con- 
tents. "  He's  that  handy  with  a  child,  sir,  you  w^ouldn't  think. 
'Deed  you  wouldn't."  Then,  stooping  to  the  baby  as  it  ate  its 
supper,  "  But  I'm  saying,  young  woman,  is  there  no  sleep  in 
your  eyes  to-night  ? " 

"  No,  but  nodding  away  here  like  a  wood-thrush  in  a  tree," 
said  Pete.  He  was  ladling  the  pobs  into  the  child's  mouth, 
and  scooping  the  overflow  from  her  chin.  "  Sleep's  a  terrible 
enemy  of  this  one,  sir.  She's  having  a  battle  with  it  every 
night  of  life,  anyway.  God  help  her,  she'll  have  luck  better 
than  some  of  us,  or  she'll  be  fighting  it  the  other  way  about 
one  of  these  days." 

"She's  us'ally  going  off  with  the  spoon  in  her  mouth,  sir, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  lil  cherub,"  said  Nancy. 

"Too  busy  looking  at  her  godfather  to-night,  though,"  said 
Pete.  "Well,  look  at  him.  You  owe  him  your  life,  you  lil 
sandpiper.  And,  my  sakes,  the  straight  like  him  you  are, 
tool" 

''  Isn't  she  ?  "  said  Nancy.  "  If  I  wasn't  thinking  the  same 
myself!  Couldn't  look  straighter  like  him  if  she'd  been  his 
born  child ;  now,  could  she  ?  And  the  curls,  too,  and  the  eyes ! 
Well,  well  I" 

''  If  she'd  been  a  boy,  now "  began  Pete. 

But  Philip  had  risen  to  return  to  the  Court-house,  and  Pete 
said  in  another  tone,  "Hould  hard  a  minute,  sir -I've  some- 
thing to  show  you.     Here,  take  the  lil  one,  Nancy." 

Pete  lit  a  candle  and  led  the  way  into  the  parlour.  The 
room  was  empty  of  furniture;  but  at  one  end  there  was  a 
stool,  a  stone  mason's  mallet,  a  few  chisels,  and  a  large  stone. 

The  stone  was  a  gravestone. 

Pete  approached  it  solemnly,  held  up  the  candle  in  front  of 
it,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "It's  for  her.  I've  been  doing  it 
myself,  sir,  and  it's  lasted  me  all  winter,  dark  nights  and  bad 


MAN  AND  GOD.  447 

days.  I'll  be  finishing  it  to-uiglit,  tliougli,  God  willing,  and 
to-morrow,  maybe,  I'll  be  taking  it  to  Douglas." 

"  Is  it "  began  Philip,  but  he  could  not  finish. 

The  stone  was  a  plain  slab,  rounded  at  the  top,  bevelled 
about  the  edge,  smoothed  on  the  face,  and  chiselled  over  the 
back  ;  but  there  was  no  sign  or  symbol  on  it,  and  no  lettering 
or  inscription. 

"  Is  there  to  be  no  name  ?  "  asked  Philip  at  last. 

''  No,"  said  Pete. 

"  No  ? " 

"  Tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I've  been  reading  what  it's  saying 
in  the  ould  Book  about  the  Recording  Angel  calling  the  dead 
out  of  their  graves." 

''  Yes  ? " 

"  And  I've  been  thinking  the  way  he'll  be  doing  it  will  be 
going  to  the  graveyards  and  seeing  the  names  on  the  grave- 
stones, and  calling  them  out  loud  to  rise  up  to  judgment  ; 
some,  as  it's  saying,  to  life  eternal,  and  some  to  everlasting 
punishment." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  been  thinking  if  he  comes  to  this  one  and 
sees  no  name  on  it  " — Pete's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper — "  maybe 
he'll  pass  it  by  and  let  the  poor  sinner  sleep  on." 

Stumbling  back  to  the  Court-house  through  the  dark  lane 
Philip  thought,  "It  was  a  lie  then,  but  it's  true  now.  It  must 
be  true.  She  must  be  dead."  There  was  a  sort  of  relief  in 
this  certainty.  It  was  an  end,  at  all  events  ;  a  pitiful  end,  a 
cowardly  end,  a  kind  of  sneaking  out  of  Fate's  fingers  ;  it  was 
not  what  he  had  looked  for  and  intended,  but  he  struggled  to 
reconcile  himself  to  it. 

Then  he  remembered  the  child  and  thought,  "Why  should 
I  disturb  it  ?  Why  should  I  disturb  Pete  ?  I  will  watch  over 
it  all  its  life.  I  will  protect  it  and  find  a  way  to  provide  for 
it.     I  will  do  my  duty  by  it.     The  child  shall  never  want." 

He  was  offering  the  key  to  the  lock  of  the  prisoners'  yard 
when  some  one  passed  him  in  the  lane,  j^eered  into  his  face, 
then  turned  about  and  spoke. 

"Oh,  it's  you.  Deemster  Christian  ?" 

"  Yes,  doctor.     Good-night  !  " 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  from  Ballawhaine  ?  The  old 
gentleman  had  another  stroke  this  morning." 


4J:S  THE   MANXMAN. 

''  No,  I  had  not  heard  it.     Ajiother  ?    Dear  me,  dear  mc  !  " 

Back  in  his  room,  Philij)  resumed  his  wig  and  gov/n  and 
returned  to  the  Court-house.  The  place  was  now  lit  up  by 
candlelight  and  densely  crowded.  Eveiybody  rose  to  his  feet 
as  the  Deemster  stepped  to  the  dais. 


V. 

"Come,  Bridget,  Saint  Bridget,  come  in  at  ray  door, 
The  crock's  on  the  bink  and  the  rush " 

"  She's  fast,"  said  Nancy.  "  Rocking  this  one  to  sleep  is 
like  waiting  for  the  kettle  to  boil.  You  may  try  and  try,  and 
blow  and  blow,  but  never  a  sound.  And  no  sooner  have  you 
forgotten  all  about  her,  but  she's  singing  away  as  steady  as  a 
top." 

Nancy  put  the  child  into  the  cradle,  tucked  her  about, 
twisted  the  head  of  the  little  nest  so  that  the  warmth  of  tlie 
fire  should  enter  it,  and  hung  a  shawl  over  the  hood  to  pro- 
tect the  little  eyelids  from  the  light.  "Will  you  keep  the 
house  till  I'm  home  from  Sulby,  Pete  ? " 

"I've  my  work,  woman,"  said  Pete  from  the  parlour. 

"  I'll  put  a  junk  on  the  fire  and  be  off  then,"  said  Nancy. 

She  pulled  the  door  on  to  the  catch  behind  her  and  went 
crunching  the  gravel  to  the  gate.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
house  now  but  the  gentle  breathing  of  the  sleeping  child,  soft 
as  an  angel's  prayer,  the  chirruping  of  the  mended  fire  like  a 
cage  of  birds,  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  and,  through  the  par- 
lour wall,  the  duU  jKit-jjud,  pat-put  of  the  wooden  mallet  and 
the  scrape  of  the  chisel  on  the  stone. 

Pete  worked  steadily  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  came  back 
to  the  hall-kitchen  with  his  tools  in  his  hands.  The  cob  of 
coal  had  kindled  to  a  lively  flame,  which  flashed  and  went 
out,  and  the  quick  black  shadows  of  the  chairs  and  the  table 
and  the  jugs  on  the  dresser  were  leaping  about  the  room  like 
elves.  With  parted  lips,  just  breaking  into  a  smile,  Pete  went 
down  on  one  knee  by  the  cradle,  put  the  mallet  under  his  arm, 
and  gently  raised  the  shawl  curtain.  "  God  bless  my  mother- 
less girl,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  no  louder  than  a  breath.  Sud- 
denly, while  he  knelt  there,  he  was  smitten  as  by  an  electric 


MAN  AND  GOD.  449 

shock.  His  face  straightened  and  he  drew  back,  stUl  holding 
the  shawl  at  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

The  child  was  sleeping  peacefully,  with  one  of  its  little 
arms  over  the  counterpane.  On  its  face  the  flickering  light 
of  the  fire  was  coming  and  going,  making  lines  about  the 
baby  eyes  and  throwing  up  the  baby  features.  It  is  in  such 
lights  that  we  are  startled  by  resemblances  in  a  child's  face. 
Pete  was  startled  by  a  resemblance.  He  had  seen  it  before, 
but  not  as  he  saw  it  now. 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  reaching  across  the  ci*adle 
again,  his  arms  spread  over  it,  and  his  face  close  down  at  the 
child's  face,  scanning  every  line  of  it  as  one  scans  a  map. 
"  'Deed,  but  she  is,  though,"  he  murmured.  "  She's  like  him 
enough,  anyway." 

An  awful  idea  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind.  He  rose 
stiffly  to  his  feet,  and  the  shawl  flapped  back.  The  room 
seemed  to  be  darkening  round  him.  He  broke  the  coal, 
though  it  was  burning  brightly,  stepped  to  the  other  side  of 
the  cradle,  and  looked  at  the  child  again.  It  was  the  same 
from  there.     The  resemblance  was  ghostly. 

He  felt  something  growing  hard  inside  of  him,  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  work  in  the  parlour.  But  the  chisel  slipped,  the 
mallet  fell  too  heavily,  and  he  stopped.  His  mind  fluctuated 
among  distant  things.  He  could  not  help  thinking  of  Port 
Mooar,  of  the  Carasdhoo  men,  of  the  day  when  he  and  Philip 
were  brought  home  in  the  early  morning. 

Putting  his  tools  down,  he  returned  to  the  room.  He  was 
holding  his  breath  and  walking  softly,  as  if  in  the  presence  of 
an  invisible  thing.  The  room  was  perfectly  quiet — he  could 
hear  the  breath  in  his  nostrils.  In  a  state  of  stupor  he  stood 
for  some  time  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  watched  his  shadow 
on  the  opposite  wall  and  on  the  ceiling.  The  cradle  was  at 
his  feet.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  it.  From  time  to 
time  he  looked  down  across  one  of  his  shoulders. 

With  head  thrown  back  and  lips  apart,  the  child  was 
breathing  calmly  and  sleeping  the  innocent  sleep.  This  angel 
innocence  reproached  him. 

"My  heart  must  be  going  bad,"  he  muttered.  "Your  bad 
thoughts  are  blackening  the  dead.  For  shame,  Pete  Quilliam, 
for  shame ! " 

He  was  feeling  like  a  man  who  is  in  a  storm  of  thunder 


450  THE  MANXMAN. 

and  lightniDg:  at  night.  Familiar  things  about  him  looked 
strange  and  awful. 

Stooping  to  the  cradle  again,  he  turned  back  the  shawl  on 
to  the  cradle-head  as  a  girl  turns  back  the  shade  of  her  sun- 
bonnet.  Then  the  firelight  was  full  on  the  child's  face,  and  it 
moved  in  its  sleep.  It  moved  yet  more  under  his  steadfast 
gaze,  and  cried  a  little,  as  if  the  terrible  thought  that  was  in 
his  mind  had  penetrated  to  its  own. 

He  was  stooping  so  when  the  door  was  opened  and  Caesar 
entered  violently,  making  asthmatic  noises  in  his  throat,  Pete 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  stupefied  air.  "  Peter,"  he  said,  "  will 
you  sell  that  mortgage  ? '' 

Pete  answered  with  a  growl. 

"  Will  you  transfer  it  to  me  ? "  said  Caesar. 

"  The  time's  not  come,"  said  Pete. 

"What  time  ?" 

''The  time  foretold  by  the  prophet,  when  the  lion  can  lie 
down  with  the  lamb." 

Pete  laughed  bitterly,  Caesar  was  quivering,  his  mouth 
was  twitching,  and  Ins  eyes  were  wild.  "  Will  you  come  over 
to  the  '  Mitre,'  then  ? " 

"  What  for  to  the  '  Mitre '  ? " 

"  Eoss  Christian  is  there." 

Pete  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  That  stormy  petrel 
again!     He's  always  about  when  there's  bad  weather  going." 

"  Will  you  come  and  hear  what  the  man's  saying  ?  " 

"What's  he  saying?" 

"  Will  you  hear  for  yourself  ? " 

Pete  looked  hard  at  Caesar,  looked  again,  then  caught  up 
his  cap  and  went  out  at  the  door. 


VI. 

With  two  of  his  cronies  the  man  had  spent  the  day  in  a 
room  overlooking  the  harbour,  drinking  hard  and  playing 
billiards.  Early  in  the  afternoon  a  messenger  had  come  from 
Ballawhaine.  saying,  "Your  father  is  ill— come  home  immedi- 
ately." "  By-and-bye,"  he  had  said,  and  gone  on  with  the 
game. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  messenger  had  come  again,  say- 


MAN  AND  GOD.  451 

ing,  "  Your  father  has  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis,  and  he  is 
calling  for  you."  "Let  me  Gnish  the  break  first,"  he  had  re- 
plied. 

In  the  evening  the  messenger  had  come  a  third  time,  say- 
ing, "Your  father  is  unconscious."  "Where's  the  hurry, 
then  ? "  he  had  answered,  and  he  sang  a  stave  of  the  "  Miller's 
Daughter  " — 

"  The)  married  me  against  my  will, 
When  I  was  daughter  at  the  mill." 

Finally,  Caesar,  who  had  been  remonstrating  with  the  Bal- 
lawhaine  at  the  moment  of  his  attack,  came  to  remonstrate 
with  Ross,  and  to  pay  off  a  score  of  his  own  as  well. 

"  Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days " 

cried  Casar,  Avith  uplifted  arm  and  the  high  pitch  of  the 
preacher.  "  But  your  days  will  not  be  long,  anyway,  and,  if 
you  are  the  death  of  that  foolish  ould  man,  it  won't  be  the 
first  death  you're  answerable  for." 

"  So  you  believe  it,  too  ? "  said  Ross,  cue  in  hand.  "  You 
believe  your  daughter  is  dead,  do  you,  old  Jephthah  Jeremiah  ? 
Would  you  be  surprised  to  hear,  now "  (the  cronies  gig- 
gled) "  that  she  isn't  dead  at  all  ? Good  shot— cannon  off 

the  cushion.  Halloa!  Jephthah  Jeremiah  has  seen  a  ghost 
seemingly.  Saw  her  myself,  man,  when  I  was  up  in  town  a 
month  ago.  Want  to  know  where  she  is  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ? 
Oh,  you're  a  beauty !    You're  a  pattern !    You  know  how  to 

train  up  a  child  in  the  way Pocket  off  the  red It's  you 

to  preach  at  my  father,  isn't  it  ?  She's  on  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don—ah, Jeremiah's  gone 

'  They  married  me  a^^ainst  my  will ' — 

There  you  are,  then — good  shot— love — twenty-five  and  noth- 
ing left." 

Pete  pushed  through  to  the  billiard-room.  Fearing  there 
might  be  violence,  hoping  there  would  bo,  yot  thinking  it 
scarcely  proper  to  lend  the  scene  of  it  the  light  of  liis  counte- 
nance, Caesar  had  stayed  outside. 

"Halloa  !  here's  Uriah  !"  cried  Ross.  "Talk  of  the  devil 
— just  thought  as  much.  Ever  read  the  story  of  David  and 
Uriah  ?  Should,  though.  Do  you  good,  mister.  David  was 
a  great  man.     Aw"  (with  a  mock  imitation  of  Pete's  Manx), 


452  THE  MANXMAN. 

"a  ter'ble,  wonderful,  shocking  great  man.  Uriah  was  his 
henchman.  Ter'ble  clavar,  too,  but  that  green  for  all,  the 
ould  cow  might  have  ate  him.  And  Uriah  had  a  nice  lil  wife. 
The  nice  now,  you  wouldn't  think.  But  when  Uriah  was 
away  Dav4d  took  her,  and  then — and  then  "  (dropping  the 
Manx)  "it  doesn't  just  run  on  Bible  lines  neither,  but  David 
told  Uriah  that  his  wife  was  dead — ha !  ha  !  ha  ! 

'  Who  saw  her  die  ? 
I  said  the  fly, 
I  saw  her ' 

Stop  that— let  go— help You'll  choke  me— help  !  help  !  " 

At  two  strides  Pete  had  come  face  to  face  with  Ross,  put 
one  of  his  hands  at  the  man's  throat  and  his  leg  behind  him, 
doubled  him  back  on  his  knee,  and  was  holding  him  there  in 
a  grip  like  that  of  a  vice. 

"  Help  ! — help  !— oo— ugh  !  "  The  fellow  gasped,  and  his 
face  grew  dark. 

"  You're  not  worth  it,"  said  Pete.  "  I  meant  to  choke  the 
life  out  of  your  dirty  body  for  lying  about  the  living  and 
blackening  the  dead,  but  you're  not  worth  hanging  for. 
You've  got  the  same  blood  in  you,  too,  and  I'm  ashamed  for 
you.     There  !  get  up." 

With  a  gesture  of  indescribable  loathing,  Pete  flung 
the  man  to  the  ground,  and  he  fell  over  his  cue  and 
broke  it. 

The  people  of  the  house  came  thronging  into  the  room, 
and  met  Pete  going  out  of  it.  His  face  was  hard  and  ugly. 
At  first  sight  they  mistook  him  for  Ross,  so  disfigured  was  he 
by  bad  passions. 

Caesar  was  tramping  the  pavement  outside.  "Will  you 
let  me  do  it  now  ? "  he  said  in  a  hot  whisper. 

"  Do  as  you  like,"  said  Pete  savagely. 

"The  wicked  is  snared  in  the  work  of  his  own  hand. 
Higgaion.  Selah,"  said  Caesar,  and  they  parted  by  the  en- 
trance to  the  Court-house. 

Pete  went  home,  muttering  to  himself,  "The  man  was  ly- 
ing—she's dead,  she's  dead  ! " 

At  the  gate  of  Elm  Cottage  the  dog  came  up  to  him,  bark- 
ing with  glee.     Then  it  darted  back  to  the  house  door,  which 


MAN   AND  GOD.  453 

stood  open.  ''Some  one  has  come,"  tliou^ht  Pete.  "She's 
dead.  The  man  lied.  She's  dead,"  he  nmttered,  and  lie  stum- 
bled dowu  the  path. 


VII. 

While  the  Deemster  was  stejiping  up  to  the  dais,  and  the 
people  in  the  court  \vere  rising  to  receive  him,  a  poor  bedrag- 
gled wayfarer  was  toiling  through  the  country  towards  the 
town.  It  was  a  woman.  She  nmst  have  walked  far,  her  step 
was  so  slow  and  so  heavy.  From  time  to  time  she  rested,  not 
sitting,  but  standing  by  the  gates  of  the  fields  as  she  came  to 
them,  acd  holding  by  the  topmost  bar. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  dark  lanes  into  the  lamplit 
streets  her  pace  quickened  for  a  moment  ;  then  it  slackened, 
and  then  it  quickened  again.  She  w^alked  close  to  the  houses, 
as  if  trying  to  escape  observation.  Where  there  was  a  short 
cut  through  an  ill-lighted  thoroughfare,  she  took  it.  Any 
one  following  her  would  have  seen  that  she  was  familiar  with 
every  corner  of  the  town. 

It  v.'ould  be  hard  to  imagine  a  woman  of  more  miserable 
appearance.  Not  that  her  clothes  were  so  mean,  though  they 
were  poor  and  worn,  but  that  an  air  of  humiliation  sat  upon 
her,  such  as  a  dog  has  when  it  is  lost  and  the  children  are 
chasing  it.  Her  dress  was  that  of  an  old  woman — the  long 
Manx  cloak  of  blue  homespun,  fastened  by  a  great  hook  close 
under  the  chin,  and  having  a  hood  which  is  drawn  over  the 
head.  But  in  spite  of  this  old-fashioned  garment,  and  the 
uncertainty  of  her  step,  she  gave  the  impression  of  a  young 
woman.  Where  the  white  frill  of  the  old  countrywoman's 
cap  should  have  shown  itself  under  the  flange  of  the  hood, 
there  was  a  veil,  which  seemed  to  be  suspended  from  a 
hat. 

The  oddity  and  incongruity  of  her  attire  attracted  atten- 
tion. Women  can>e  out  of  their  houses  and  ci-ossed  lo  the 
doors  of  neighbours  to  look  after  her.  Even  the  boys  playing 
at  the  corners  looked  up  as  she  went  by. 

She  was  not  greatly  observed  for  all  that.  An  unusual 
interest  agitated  the  town.  A  wave  of  commotion  flowed 
down  the  streets.  The  traffic  went  in  one  direction.  That 
direction  was  the  Court-house. 


454:  THE  MANXMAN. 

The  Court-house  square  was  thronged  on  three  of  its  sides 
by  people  who  were  gathered  both  on  the  pavement  and  on 
the  green  inside  the  railings.  Its  fourth  side  was  the  dark 
lane  at  the  back  going  by  the  door  to  the  prisoners'  yard  and 
the  Deemster  s  entrance.  The  windows  were  lit  up  and  partly 
open.  Some  of  the  people  had  edged  to  the  walls  as  if  to 
listen,  and  a  few  had  clambered  to  the  sills  as  if  to  see. 
Around  the  wide  doorw^ay  there  was  a  close  crowd  that 
seemed  to  cling  to  it  like  a  burr. 

The  woman  had  reached  the  first  angle  of  the  square  when 
the  upper  half  of  the  Court-house  door  broke  into  light  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd.  A  man  had  come  out.  He  surged 
through  the  crowd  and  came  down  to  the  gate  w4th  a  tail  of 
people  trailing  after  him  and  asking  questions. 

"Wonderful  !  "  he  was  saying.  "The  Dempster's  spaking. 
Aw,  a  Daniel  come  to  judgment,  sir.  Pity  for  Tom,  though — 
the  man'll  get  time.  I'm  sorry  for  an  ould  friend — but  the 
Lord's  will  be  done  !  Let  not  the  ties  of  aJffection  be  a  snare 
to  our  feet— it'll  be  five  years  if  it's  a  day,  and  (D.V.)  he'll 
never  live  to  see  the  end  of  it." 

It  was  Caesar.  He  crossed  the  street  to  the  "  Mitre."  The 
woman  trembled  and  turned  towards  the  lane  at  the  back 
She  walked  quicker  than  ever  now.  But,  stumbling  over  the 
irregular  cobbles  of  the  paved  way,  she  stopped  suddenly  at 
the  sound  of  a  voice.  By  this  time  she  was  at  the  door  to  the 
prisoners'  yard,  and  it  was  standing  open.  The  door  of  the 
corridor  leading  by  the  Deemster's  chamber  to  the  Court-house 
was  also  ajar,  as  if  it  had  been  opened  to  relieve  the  heat  of  the 
crowded  room  within. 

"Be  just  and  fear  not,"  said  the  voice.  "  Remember,  what- 
ever unconscious  misrepresentations  have  been  made  this  day, 
whatever  deliberate  false-swearing  (and  God  and  the  con- 
sciences of  the  guilty  ones  know  well  there  have  been  both), 
truth  is  mighty,  and  in  the  end  it  will  prevail." 

The  poor  bedraggled  wayfarer  stood  in  the  darkness  and 
trembled.  Her  hand;j  clutched  at  the  breast  of  the  cloak,  her 
head  dropped  into  her  breast,  and  a  half-smothered  moan 
escaped  from  her.  She  knew  the  voice  ;  it  had  once  been  very 
sweet  and  dear  to  her  ;  she  had  heard  it  at  her  ear  in  tones  of 
love.  It  wa,s  the  voice  of  the  Deemster.  He  was  speaking 
from  the  judge's  seat  :  the  people  were  hanging  on  his  lips. 


MAN   AND  GOD.  455 

And  he  was  standing  in  the  sliadow  of  the  dark  lane  under  the 
prisoners'  wall. 

The  woman  was  Kate.  It  was  true  that  she  had  been  to 
London  ;  it  was  false  that  she  had  lived  a  life  of  shame  there. 
In  six  months  she  had  descended  to  the  depths  of  poverty  and 
privations.  One  day  she  had  encountered  Ross.  He  was  fresh 
from  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  he  told  her  of  the  child's  illness. 
The  same  night  she  turned  her  face  towards  home.  It  was 
three  weeks  since  she  had  returned  to  the  island,  and  she  was 
then  low  in  health,  in  heart,  and  in  pocket.  The  snow  was 
falling.  It  was  a  bitter  night.  Growing  dizzy  with  the  drift- 
ing whiteness  and  numb  with  the  piercing  cold,  she  had  crept 
up  to  a  lonely  house  and  asked  shelter  until  the  storm  should 
cease. 

The  house  was  the  home  of  three  old  people,  two  old  broth- 
ers and  an  old  sister,  who  had  always  lived  together.  In  this 
household  Kate  had  spent  three  weeks  of  sickness,  and  the 
Manx  cloak  on  her  back  was  a  parting  gift  which  the  old 
woman  had  hung  over  her  thinly-clad  shoulders. 

Back  in  the  roads  Kate  had  time  to  tell  herself  how  foolish 
was  her  journey.  She  was  like  a  sailor  who  has  alarming 
news  of  home  in  some  foreign  port  and  hears  nothing  after- 
wards until  he  comes  to  harbour.  A  month  had  passed.  So 
many  things  might  have  happened.  The  child  might  be  bet- 
ter; it  might  be  dead  and  buried.    Nevertheless  she  pushed  on. 

When  she  left  London  she  had  been  full  of  bitterness 
towards  Philip.  It  was  his  fault  that  she  had  ever  been 
parted  from  her  baby.  She  would  go  back.  If  she  brought 
shame  upon  him,  let  him  bear  it.  On  coming  near  to  home 
this  feeling  of  vengeance  died.  Nothing  was  left  but  a  great 
longing  to  be  with  her  little  one  and  a  sense  of  her  own  degra- 
dation. Every  face  she  recognised  seemed  to  remind  her  of  the 
change  that  had  been  wrought  in  hereelf  since  she  had  looked 
on  it  last.  She  dare  not  ask  ;  she  dare  not  speak  ;  she  dare 
not  reveal  herself. 

While  she  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  prisoners'  yard  lis- 
tening to  Philip's  voice,  and  held  by  it  as  by  a  spell,  there  was 
a  low  hiss  and  then  a  sort  of  white  silence,  as  when  a  rocket 
breaks  in  the  air.  The  Deemster  had  finished ;  the  people  in 
the  court  were  breathing  audibly  and  moving  in  their  seats. 

A  minute  later  she  was  standing  by  her  old  home,  hers  no 


456  THE  MANXMAN. 

longer,  and  haunted  in  her  mind  by  many  bitter  memories. 
It  was  dark  and  cheerless.  A  candle  had  been  burning 
in  the  pai'lour,  but  it  was  now  spluttering  in  the  fat  at 
the  socket.  As  she  looked  into  the  room,  it  blinked  and 
went  out. 

During  the  last  mile  of  her  journey  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  what  she  would  do.  She  would  creep  up  to  the  house 
and  listen  for  the  sound  of  a  child's  voice.  If  she  heard  it,  and 
the  voice  was  that  of  a  child  that  was  well,  she  would  be  con- 
tent, she  would  go  away.  And  if  she  did  not  hear  it,  if  the 
child  was  gone,  if  there  was  no  longer  any  child  there,  if  it 
was  in  heaven,  she  would  go  away  just  the  same — only  God 
knew  how,  God  knew  where. 

The  road  was  quiet.  With  trembling  fingers  she  raised  the 
latch  of  the  gate,  and  stepped  two  paces  into  the  garden.  There 
was  no  sound  from  within.  She  took  two  steps  more  and  lis- 
tened intently.  Nothing  was  audible.  Her  heart  fell  yet  lower. 
She  told  herself  that  when  a  child  lived  in  a  house  the  very  air 
breathed  of  its  presence,  and  its  little  voice  was  everywhere. 
Then  she  remembered  that  it  was  late,  that  it  was  night,  that 
even  if  the  child  were  well  it  would  now  be  bathed  and  in 
bed.  "  How  foolish  I  "  she  thought,  and  she  took  a  few  steps 
more. 

She  had  meant  to  reach  the  hall  window  and  look  in,  but 
before  she  could  do  so,  something  came  scudding  along  the 
path  in  her  direction.  It  was  the  dog,  and  he  was  barking 
furiously.  All  at  once  he  stopped  and  began  to  caper  about 
her.  Then  he  broke  into  barking  again,  this  time  with  a  note 
of  recognition  and  delight,  shot  into  the  house  and  came  back, 
still  barking,  and  making  a  circle  of  joyful  salutation  in  the 
darkness  round  her. 

Quaking  with  fear  of  instant  discovery,  she  crept  under  the 
old  tree  and  waited.  Nobody  came  from  the  house.  "  There's 
no  one  at  home,"  she  told  herself,  and  at  that  thought  the  cer- 
tainty that  the  child  was  gone  fell  on  her  as  an  oppression  of 
distress. 

Nevertheless  she  stepped  up  to  the  poi'ch  and  listened 
again.  There  was  no  sound  within  except  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  Making  a  call  on  her  courage,  she  pushed  the  door 
open  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  It  made  a  rustle  as  the  bot- 
tom brushed  over  the  rushes.     At  that  she  uttered  a  faint  cry 


MAN  AND  GOD.  457 

and  crept  back  trembling.  But  all  was  silence  again  in  an 
instant.  The  fire  gave  out  a  strong  red  glow  which  spread 
over  the  walls  and  the  ceiling.  Her  mnid  took  in  the  impres- 
sion that  the  place  was  almost  empty,  but  she  had  no  time  for 
such  observations.  With  slow  and  stiff  motions  she  slid  into 
the  house. 

Then  she  heard  a  sleepy  whimper  and  it  thrilled  her.  In 
an  instant  she  had  seen  the  thing  she  looked  for— the  cradle, 
with  its  hood  towards  the  door  and  its  foot  to  the  fire.  At  the 
next  moment  she  was  on  her  knees  beside  it,  doubled  over  it 
and  crying  softly  to  the  baby,  looking  so  different,  smelling  of 
milk  and  of  sleep,  "  My  darling  !  my  darling  ! " 

That  was  the  moment  when  Pete  was  coming  up  the  path. 
The  dog  was  frisking  and  barking  about  him.  ''  She's  dead," 
he  was  saying.  "The  man  lied.  She's  dead."  With  that 
word  on  his  lips  he  heaved  heavily  into  the  house.  As  he  did 
so  he  became  aware  that  some  one  was  there  already.  Before 
his  eye  had  carried  the  news  to  his  brain,  his  ear  had  told  him. 
He  heard  a  voice  which  he  knew  well,  though  it  seemed  to  be 
a  memory  of  no  waking  moment,  but  to  come  out  of  the  dark- 
ness and  the  hours  of  sleep.  It  was  a  soft  and  mellow  voice, 
saying,  "■  My  beautiful  darling  !  My  beautiful,  rosy  darling  ! 
My  dai'ling  !     My  darling  !  " 

He  saw  a  woman  kneeling  by  the  cradle,  with  both  arms 
buried  in  it  as  though  they  encircled  the  sleeping  child.  Her 
hood  was  thrown  back,  and  her  head  was  bare.  The  firelight 
fell  on  her  face,  and  he  knew  it.  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes  as  if  trying  to  wipe  out  the  apparition,  but  it  remained. 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  tongue  was  stiff.  He  stood  motion- 
less and  stared.     He  could  not  remove  his  eyes. 

Kate  heard  the  door  thrown  open,  and  she  lifted  her  head 
in  terror.  Pete  was  before  her,  with  a  violent  expression  on 
his  face.  The  expression  changed,  and  he  looked  at  her  as  if 
she  had  been  a  spirit.  Then,  in  a  voice  of  awe,  he  said,  "  Who 
art  thou  ? " 

"  Don't  you  know  me  ?  "  she  answered  timidly. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  did  not  hear.  "  Then  it's  true,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  ;  "  the  man  did  not  lie." 

She  felt  her  knees  trembling  under  her.  "  I  haven't  come 
to  stay,"  she  faltered.  '*  They  told  me  the  child  was  ill,  and  I 
couldn't  help  coming." 


458  THE  MANXMAN. 

Still  he  did  not  speak  to  her.  As  he  looked,  his  face  grew 
awful.     The  dew  of  fear  broke  out  on  her  forehead. 

"  Don't  you  know  rile,  Pete  ? "  she  said  in  a  helpless  way. 

Still  he  stood  looking  down  at  her,  fixedly,  almost  threat- 
eningly. 

"  I  am  Katherine,"  she  said,  with  a  downcast  look. 

"  Katherine  is  dead,"  he  answered  vacantly. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  " 

"  She  is  in  her  grave,"  he  said  again. 

"  Oh,  that  she  were  in  her  grave  indeed  1  "  said  Kate,  and 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  She  is  dead  and  buried,  and  gone  from  this  house  for 
ever,"  said  Pete. 

He  did  not  intend  to  cast  her  off  ;  he  was  only  muttering 
vague  words  in  the  first  spasm  of  his  pain  ;  but  she  mistook 
them  for  commands  to  her  to  go. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  she  uncovered  her 
face  and  said,  ''  I  understand — yes,  I  will  go  away.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  come  back  at  all — I  know  that.  But  I  will  go 
now.  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more.  I  will  never  come 
again." 

She  kissed  the  child  passionately.  It  rubbed  its  little  face 
with  the  back  of  its  hand,  but  it  did  not  awake.  She  pulled 
the  hood  on  to  her  head,  and  drew  the  veil  over  her  face. 
Then  she  lifted  herself  feebly  to  her  feet,  stood  a  moment 
looking  about  her,  made  a  faint  pathetic  cry  and  slid  out  at 
the  door. 

When  she  was  gone,  Pete,  without  uttering  a  word  or  a 
sound,  stumbled  into  a  chair  before  the  fire,  put  one  hand  on 
the  cradle,  and  fell  to  rocking  it.  After  some  time  he  looked 
over  his  shoulder,  like  a  man  who  was  coming  out  of  uncon- 
sciousness, and  said,  "  Eh  ?  " 

The  soul  has  room  for  only  one  great  emotion  at  once,  and 
he  had  begun  to  say  to  himself,  "She's  alive  !  She's  here  !  " 
The  air  of  the  house  seemed  to  be  soft  with  her  presence. 
Hush! 

He  got  on  to  his  feet.  "  Kate  !  "  he  called  softly,  very 
softlv,  as  if  she  were  near  and  had  only  just  crossed  the  thresh- 
old. "^ 

"  Kate  !  "  he  called  again  more  loudly. 

Then  he  went  out  at  the  porch  and  floundered  along  the 


MAX    AND   (iol),  45<) 

path,  crying:  a^ain  and  a<?ain,  in  a  voice  of  boundless  emotion, 
"  Kate  I  Kate  !  Kate  !  " 

But  Kate  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  tu^''<j:iii<j:  at  tlie  p^ate  to 
open  it,  when  something"  seemed  to  jjive  way  inside  liis  licad, 
and  a  hoarse  ofroan  came  from  his  throat. 

"  She's  better  dead,"  he  thought,  and  then  reeled  back  to 
the  house  like  a  drunken  man. 

The  fire  looked  black,  as  if  it  had  g-one  out.  He  sat  down 
in  the  darkness,  and  put  his  hand  into  his  teeth  to  keep  him- 
self from  crying  out. 

VIII. 

The  Deemster  in  the  half-lit  Court-house  was  passing  sen- 
tence. 

'"Prisoner,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  found  guilty  by  a 
jury  of  your  countrymen  of  one  of  the  cruellest  of  the  crimes 
of  imposture.  You  have  deceived  the  ignorant,  betrayed  the 
unwary,  lied  to  the  simple,  and  robbed  the  poor.  You  have 
built  your  life  upon  a  lie,  and  in  your  old  age  it  brings  you  to 
confusion.  In  ruder  times  than  ours  your  offence  would  have 
worn  another  complexion  ;  it  would  have  been  called  witch- 
craft, not  imposture,  and  your  doom  would  have  been  death. 
The  sentence  of  the  court  is  that  you  be  committed  to  the  Cas- 
tle Rushen  for  the  term  of  one  year." 

Black  Tom,  who  had  stood  during  the  Deemster's  sentence 
with  his  bald  head  bent,  wiping  his  eyes  on  his  sleeve  and 
leaving  marks  on  his  face,  recovered  his  self-conceit  as  he  was 
being  hustled  out  of  court. 

"  You're  right.  Dempster,"  he  cried.  "  Witciicraft  isn't 
worth  nothing  now.  Religion's  the  only  roguery  that's  go- 
ing these  days.  Your  friend  Ca?sar  was  wise,  sir.  Bes'  re- 
spec's  to  him,  Dempster,  and  may  you  live  up  to  your  own 
tex'  yourself,  too." 

"  If  my  industry  and  integrity,"  .said  a  solemn  voice  at  the 
door— ''and  what's  it  saying  in  Scripture? — 'If  any  provide 
not  for  his  own  house  he  is  worse  than  an  infidel.'  But  the 
Lord  is  my  shield.  What  for  should  I  defend  my.self  ?  I  am 
a  worm  and  no  man,  saith  the  P.salms." 

"The  Psalms  is  about  right  then,  Caesar,"  shouted  Black 
Tom  from  between  two  constables. 


460  THE   MANXMAN. 

In  the  commotion  that  followed  on  the  prisoner's  noisy- 
removal,  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  heard  to  speak  to  the 
Deemster.  There  was  another  case  just  come  in — attempted 
suicide — woman  tried  to  fling  herself  into  the  harbour — been 
prevented — would  his  Honour  take  it  now,  or  let  it  stand  over 
for  the  High  Bailiffs  court. 

"We'll  take  it  now,"  said  the  Deemster.  "We  may  dis- 
miss her  in  a  moment,  poor  creature." 

The  woman  was  brought  in.  She  was  less  like  a  human 
creature  than  like  a  heap  of  half-drenched  clothes.  A  cloak 
which  looked  black  with  the  water  that  soaked  it  at  the  hood 
covered  her  body  and  head.  Her  face  seemed  to  be  black  also, 
for  a  veil  which  she  wore  was  wet,  and  clung  to  her  features 
like  a  glove.  Some  of  the  people  in  court  recognised  her  figure 
even  in  the  uncertain  candlelight.  She  was  the  woman  who 
had  been  seen  to  come  into  the  town  during  the  hour  of  the 
court's  adjom-nment. 

Half  helped,  half  dragged  by  constables,  she  entered  the 
prisoner's  dock.  There  she  clutched  the  bar  before  her  as  if 
to  keep  herself  from  falling.  Her  head  was  bent  down  be- 
tween her  shrinking  shouldei's  as  if  she  were  going  through 
the  agony  of  shame  and  degradation. 

"  The  woman  shouldn't  have  been  brought  here  like  this — 
quick,  be  quick,"  said  the  Deemster. 

The  evidence  was  brief.  One  of  the  constables  being  on 
duty  in  the  market-place  had  heard  screams  from  the  quay. 
On  reaching  the  place,  he  had  found  the  harbour-master 
carrying  a  woman  up  the  quay  steps.  Mr.  Quarry,  coming 
out  of  the  harbour  office,  had  seen  a  woman  go  by  like  the 
wind.  A  moment  afterwards  he  had  heard  a  cry,  and  had 
run  to  the  second  steps.  The  woman  had  been  caught  by  a 
boathook  in  attempting  to  get  into  the  water.  She  was  strug- 
gling to  drown  herself. 

The  Deemster  watched  the  prisoner  intently.  "  Is  anything 
known  about  her  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  clerk  answered  that  she  appeared  to  be  a  stranger,  but 
she  would  give  no  information.  Then  the  sergeant  of  police 
stepped  up  to  the  dock.  In  emphatic  tones  the  big  little  per- 
son asked  the  woman  various  questions.  What  was  her  name  ? 
No  answer.  Where  did  she  come  from  ?  No  answer.  What 
was  she  doing  in  Ramsey  ?    Still  no  answer. 


MAN   AND  GOD.  4G1 

"  Your  Honour,"  said  the  serg^eant,  "  doubtless  this  is  one 
of  the  human  wrecks  that  come  drifting  to  our  shores  in  the 
summer  season.  The  poorest  of  them  ai'e  often  unable  to  get 
away  when  the  season  is  over,  and  so  wander  over  the  island, 
a  pest  and  a  burden  to  every  place  they  set  foot  in." 

Then,  turning  back  to  the  figure  crouching  in  the  dock,  he 
said,  "  Woman,  are  you  a  street-walker  ? " 

The  woman  gave  a  piteous  cry,  let  go  her  hold  of  the  bar, 
sank  back  to  the  seat  behind  her,  brushed  up  the  wet  black 
veil,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Sit  down  this  instant,  Mr.  Gawne,"  said  the  Deemster 
hotly,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  approval  from  behind. 
"We  must  not  keep  this  woman  a  moment  longer." 

He  rose,  leaned  across  to  the  rail  in  front,  clasped  his  hands 
before  him,  looked  down  at  the  woman  in  the  dock,  and  said 
in  a  low  tone,  that  would  have  been  barely  loud  enough  to 
reach  her  eai*s  but  for  t^e  silence,  as  of  a  tomb,  in  the  court, 
"My  poor  woman,  is  there  anybody  who  can  answer  for 
you?" 

The  prisoner  stooped  her  head  lower  and  began  to  cry. 

"  When  a  woman  is  so  unhappy  as  to  try  to  take  her  life,  it 
sometimes  occurs,  only  too  sadly,  that  another  is  partly  to  blame 
for  the  condition  that  tempts  her  to  th^  crime." 

The  Deemster's  voice  was  as  soft  as  a  caress. 

"  If  there  is  such  a  one  in  this  case,  we  ought  to  learn  it. 
He  ought  to  stand  by  your  side.  It  is  only  right ;  it  is  only 
just.     Is  there  anybody  here  who  knows  you  ? " 

The  prisoner  w^as  now  crying  piteously. 

"  Ah !  we  mean  no  harm  to  any  one.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
woman,  however  Ioav  she  may  sink,  however  deep  her  misfor- 
tunes, to  shield  her  dearest  enemy.  That  is  the  brave  impulse 
of  the  weakest  among  women,  and  all  good  men  respect  it. 
But  the  law  has  its  duty,  and  in  this  instance  it  is  one  of 
mercy." 

The  woman  moaned  audibly. 

''Don't  be  afraid,  my  poor  girl.  Nobody  shall  harm  you 
here.  Take  courage  and  look  around.  Is  there  anybody  in 
court  who  can  speak  for  you — who  can  tell  us  how  you  came 
to  the  place  where  you  are  now  standing  ? " 

The  woman  let  fall  her  hands,  raised  her  head,  and  looked 
up  at  the  Deemster,  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye. 


462  THE  MANXMAN. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "there  is  one." 

The  Deemster's  countenance  became  pale,  his  eyes  glistened, 
his  look  wandered,  his  lips  trembled — he  was  biting  them,  they 
were  bleeding. 

"  Remove  her  in  custody,"  he  muttered ;  "  let  her  be  well 
cared  for." 

There  was  a  tumult  in  a  moment.  Everybody  had  recog- 
nised the  prisoner  as  she  was  being  taken  out,  though  shame 
and  privation  had  so  altered  her.  "  Peter  Quilliam's  wife ! " — 
"  Caesar  Cregeen's  daughter — where's  the  man  himself  ?  " — 
"  Then  it's  truth  they're  telling— it's  not  dead  she  is  at  all,  but 
worse." — "  Lor-a-massy !  " — "What  a  trouble  for  the  Demp- 
ster ! " 

When  Kate  was  gone,  the  court  ought  to  have  adjourned 
instantly,  yet  the  Deemster  remained  in  his  seat.  There  was  a 
mist  before  his  eyes  which  dazzled  him.  He  had  a  look  at  once 
wild  and  timid.  His  limbs  pained  as'though  they  were  swell- 
ing to  enormous  size.  He  felt  as  if  a  heavy,  invisible  hand  had 
been  laid  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

The  clerk  caught  his  eye,  and  then  he  rose  with  an  apolo- 
getic air,  took  hold  of  the  rail,  and  made  an  effort  to  cross  the 
dais.  At  the  next  moment  his  servant,  Jem-y-Lord,  had  leapt 
up  to  his  side,  but  he  made  an  impatient  gesture  as  if  declining 
help. 

There  are  three  steps  going  down  to  the  floor  of  the  court, 
and  a  handrail  on  one  side  of  them.  Coming  to  these  steps, 
he  stumbled,  muttered  some  confused  words,  and  fell  forward 
on  to  his  face.  The  people  were  on  their  feet  by  this  time,  and 
there  was  a  rush  to  the  place. 

"  Stand  back  I     He  has  only  fainted,"  cried  Jem-y-Lord. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  Get  him  to  bed, 
and  send  for  Dr.  Mylechreest  instantly." 

"  Where  can  we  take  him  ? "  said  somebody. 

"  They  keep  a  room  for  him  at  Elm  Cottage,"  said  somebody 
else. 

"No,  not  there,"  said  Jem-y-Lord. 

"  It's  nearest,  and  there's  no  time  to  lose,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. 

Then  they  lifted  Philip,  and  carried  him  as  he  lay,  in  his 
wig  and  gown  as  Deemster,  to  the  house  of  Pete. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  403 


IX. 

There  is  a  kind  of  mental  shock  which,  like  an  earthquake 
under  a  prison,  bursts  open  every  cell  and  lets  the  inmates 
escape.  After  a  time,  Pete  remembered  that  he  was  sitting  in 
the  dai'k,  and  he  got  up  to  light  a  candle.  Looking  for  candle- 
stick and  matches,  he  went  from  table  to  dresser,  from  dresser 
to  table,  and  from  table  back  to  dresser,  doing  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again,  and  not  perceiving  that  he  was  going 
round  and  round.  When  at  length  the  candle  was  lighted,  he 
took  it  in  his  hand  and  w^ent  into  the  parlour  like  a  sleep- 
walker. He  set  it  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  sat  down  on  the 
stool.  In  his  blurred  vision  confused  forms  floated  about  him. 
"  Ah !  my  tools,"  he  thought,  and  picked  up  the  mallet  and 
two  of  the  chisels.  He  was  sitting  with  these  in  his  hands 
when  his  eyes  fell  on  the  other  candlestick,  the  one  in  which 
the  candle  had  gone  out.  "  I  meant  to  light  a  candle,"  he 
thought,  and  he  got  up  and  took  the  empty  candlestick  into 
the  hall.  When  he  came  back  with  another  lighted  candle, 
he  perceived  that  there  were  two.  "I'm  going  stupid,"  he 
thought,  and  he  blew  out  the  first  one.  A  moment  afterwards 
he  forgot  that  he  had  done  so,  and  seeing  the  second  still  burn- 
ing, he  blew  that  out  also. 

So  dull  were  his  senses  that  he  did  not  realise  that  any- 
thing was  amiss.  His  eyes  were  seeing  objects  everywhere 
about — they  were  growing  to  awful  size  and  threatening  him. 
His  ears  were  hearing  noises — they  were  making  a  fearful 
tumult  inside  his  head. 

The  room  was  not  entirely  dark.  A  shaft  of  bleared  moon- 
light cam.e  and  went  at  intervals.  The  moon  was  scudding 
through  an  angry  sky,  sometimes  appearing,  sometimes  disap- 
pearing. Pete  returned  to  the  stool,  and  then  he  was  in  the 
light,  but  the  nameless  stone,  leaning  against  the  wall,  was  in 
the  shade.  He  took  up  the  mallet  and  chisels  again,  intending 
to  work.  •'  Hush !  "  he  said  as  he  began.  The  clamour  in  his 
brain  was  so  loud  that  he  thought  some  one  was  making  a 
noise  in  the  house.  This  task  was  sacred.  He  always  worked 
at  it  in  silence. 

Pat-put!  pat-put!  How  long  he  worked  he  never  knew. 
There  are  moments  which  are  not  to  be  measured  as  time.  In 
the  uncertain  handling  of  the  chisel  and  the  irregular  beat  of 


46i  THE  MANXMAN. 

the  mallet  something  gave  way.  There  was  a  harsh  sound 
like  a  groan.  A  crack  like  a  flash  of  forked  lightning  had 
shot  across  the  face  of  the  stone.  He  had  split  it  in  half.  Its 
great  pieces  fell  to  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him.  Then  he 
remembered  that  the  stone  had  been  useless.  "It  doesn't 
matter  now,"  he  thought.     Nothing  mattered. 

With  the  mallet  hanging  from  his  hand  he  continued  to 
sit  in  the  drifting  moonlight,  feeling  as  if  everything  in  the 
world  had  been  shivered  to  atoms.  His  two  idols  had  been 
scattered  at  one  blow — his  wife  and  his  friend.  The  golden 
threads  that  had  bound  him  to  life  were  broken.  When  pov- 
erty had  come,  he  had  met  it  without  repining  ;  when  death 
had  seemed  to  come,  he  had  borne  up  against  it  bravely.  But 
wifeless,  friendless,  deceived  where  he  had  loved,  betrayed 
where  he  had  worshipped,  he  was  bankrupt,  he  was  broken, 
and  a  boundless  despair  took  hold  of  him. 

When  hope  is  entirely  gone,  anguish  will  sometimes  turn 
a  man  into  a  monster.  There  was  a  fretful  cry  from  the 
cradle,  and,  still  in  the  stupor  of  his  despair,  he  went  out  to 
rock  it.  The  fire,  which  had  only  slid  and  smouldered,  was 
now  struggling  into  flame,  and  the  child  looked  up  at  him 
with  Philip's  eyes.  A  knife  seemed  to  enter  his  heart  at  that 
moment.  He  was  more  desolate  than  he  had  thought.  "  Hush, 
my  child,  hush  !  "  he  said,  without  thinking.  His  child  ?  He 
had  none.     That  solace  was  gone. 

Anger  came  to  save  his  reason.  Not  to  have  felt  anger,  he 
must  have  been  less  than  a  man  or  more.  He  remembered 
what  the  child  had  been  to  him.  He  remembered  what  it  was 
when  it  came,  and  again  when  he  thought  its  mother  was 
dead  ;  he  remembered  \<^hat  it  was  when  death  frowned  on  it, 
and  what  it  had  been  since  death  passed  it  by.  Flesh  of  his 
flesh,  blood  of  his  blood,  bone  of  his  bone,  heart  of  his  heart. 
Not  his  merely,  but  himself. 

A  lie,  a  mockery,  a  delusion,  a  deception  !  She  has  prac- 
tised it.  Oh.  she  had  hidden  her  secret.  She  had  thought  it 
was  safe.  But  the  child  itself  had  betrayed  it.  The  secret 
had  spoken  from  the  child's  own  face. 

'•  Yet  I've  seen  her  kneel  by  the  cot  and  pray,  '  God  bless 
my  baby,  and  its  father  and  its  mother ' " 

Why  had  lie  not  killed  her  ?  A  wild  ^4sion  rose  before 
him  of  killing  Kate,  and  then  going  to  the  Deemster  and  say- 


MAN   AND   GOD.  4(35 

ing,  "Take  me  ;  I  have  murdered  her  because  you  have  dis- 
honoured her.  Condemn  me  to  death  ;  yet  remember  God 
lives,  and  He  will  coudeum  you  to  damnation." 

But  the  pity  of  it— the  pity  of  it  !  By  a  quick  revolt  of 
tenderness  he  recalled  Kate  as  he  had  just  seen  her,  crouching 
at  the  back  of  the  cradle,  like  a  hunted  hare  with  uplifted 
paws  uttering  its  last  pitiful  cry.  He  remembered  her  altered 
face,  so  pale  even  in  the  firelight,  so  thin,  so  worn,  and  his 
anger  began  to  smoke  against  Philip.  The  flower  that  he 
would  have  been  proud  to  wear  on  his  breast  Philip  had 
buried  in  the  dark.     Curse  him  !     Curse  him  ! 

She  had  given  up  all  for  that  man— husband,  child,  father, 
mother,  her  friends,  her  good  name,  the  very  light  of  heaven. 
How  she  must  have  loved  him  !  Yet  he  had  been  ashamed  of 
her,  had  hidden  her  away,  had  been  in  fear  lest  the  very  air 
should  whisper  of  her  whereabouts.  Curse  him!  Curse  him! 
Curse  him ! 

In  the  heat  of  his  great  anger  Pete  thought  of  himself  also. 
Jealousy  was  far  beneath  him,  but,  like  all  great  souls,  this 
simple  man  had  known  something  of  the  grandeur  of  friend- 
ship. Two  streams  running  into  (fne,  and  taking  heaven  into 
their  bosom.  But  Philip  had  kept  him  apart,  had  banked  him 
off,  and  yet  drained  him  to  the  dregs.  He  had  uncovered  his 
nakedness — the  nakedness  of  his  soul  itself. 

Bit  by  bit  Pete  pieced  together  the  history  of  the  past 
months.  He  remembered  the  night  of  Kate's  disappearance, 
when  he  had  gone  to  Ballure  and  shouted  up  at  the  lighted 
window,  "  I've  sent  her  to  England,"  thinking  to  hide  her 
fault.  At  that  moment  Philip  had  known  all — where  she  was 
(for  it  was  where  he  had  sent  her),  why  she  was  gone,  and 
that  she  was  gone  for  ever.     Curse  him  !     Curse  him  ! 

Pete  recalled  the  letters — the  first  one  that  he  had  put  into 
Philip's  hand,  the  second  that  he  had  read  to  him,  the  third 
that  Philip  had  written  to  his  dictation.  The  little  forgeries 
to  keep  her  poor  name  sweet,  the  little  inventions  to  make  his 
story  plausible,  the  little  lies  of  love,  the  little  jests  of  a  break- 
ing heart  !  And  then  the  messages  !  The  presents  to  the 
child  !  The  reference  to  the  Deemster  himself  !  And  the 
Deemster  had  sat  there  and  seen  through  it  all  as  the  sun  sees 
through  glass,  yet  he  had  given  no  sign,  he  had  never  spoken  ; 
he  had  held  a  quivering,  naked  heart  in  his  hand,  while  his 


466  THE  MANXMAN. 

own  lay  within  as  cold  as  a  stone.  Curse  him,  O  God !  Curse 
him  I 

Pete  remembered  the  night  when  Philip  came  to  tell  him 
that  Kate  was  dead,  and  how  he  had  comforted  himself  with 
the  thought  that  he  was  not  altogether  alone  in  his  great 
trouble,  because  his  friend  was  with  him.  He  remembered 
the  journey  to  the  grave,  the  grave  itself— another's  grave — 
how  he  knelt  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  prayed  aloud  in  Philip's 
hearing,  *'  Forgive  me,  my  poor  girl  !  " 

"How  shall  I  kill  him  ?"  thought  Pete.  Deemster  too  ! 
First  Deemster  now,  and  held  high  iA  honour  !  Worshipped 
for  his  justice  !     Beloved  for  his  mercy  !     O  God  !     0  God  ! 

There  are  passions  so  overmastering  that  they  stifle  speech, 
and  man  sinks  back  to  the  animal.  With  an  iiiarticulate 
shout  Pete  went  to  the  parlour  and  caught  up  the  mallet.  A 
frantic  thought  had  flashed  on  him  of  killing  Philip  as  he  sat 
on  the  bench  which  he  had  disgraced,  administering  the  law 
which  he  had  outraged.  The  wild  justice  of  this  idea  made 
the  blood  to  bubble  in  his  ears.  He  saw  himself  holding 
the  Deemster  by  the  throat,  and  cry-ing  aloud  to  the  people, 
"  You  think  this  man  is  a*  just  judge — he  is  a  whited  sepul- 
chre. You  think  he  is  as  true  as  the  sun — he  is  as  false  as 
the  sea.  He  has  robbed  me  of  wife  and  child  ;  at  the  very 
gates  of  heaven  he  has  lied  to  me  like  hell.  The  hour  of 
justice  has  struck,  and  thus  I  pay  him — and  thus — and 
thus." 

But  the  power  of  words  was  lost  in  the  drunkenness  of  his 
rage.  With  a  dismal  roar  he  flung  the  mallet  away,  and  it 
rolled  on  the  ground  in  narrowing  circles.  ''  My  hands,  my 
hands,"  he  thought.  He  would  strangle  Philip,  and  then  he 
would  kill  everybody  in  his  way,  merely  for  the  lust  of  kill- 
ing. Why  not  ?  The  fatal  line  was  past.  Nothing  sacred 
remained.  The  world  was  a  howling  wilderness  of  boundless 
license.  With  the  savage  growl  of  a  caged  beast  this  wdld 
man  flung  himself  on  the  door,  tore  it  open,  and  bounded  on 
to  the  path. 

Then  he  stopped  suddenly.  There  was  a  thunderous  noise 
outside,  such  as  the  waves  make  in  a  cave.  A  company  of 
people  were  coming  in  at  the  gate.  Some  were  walking  with 
the  heavy  step  of  men  w^ho  carry  a  corpse.  Others  were  bear- 
ing lanterns,  and  a  few  held  high  over  their  heads  the  torches 


MAN   AND  GOD.  467 

which  fishermen  use  wlicu  they  are  liauling*  the  white  nets  at 
night. 

"  Who's  there  ? "  cried  Pete,  in  a  voice  that  was  like  a 
howl. 

"  Your  friend,"  said  somebody. 

''  My  friend  ?  I  have  no  friend,"  cried  Pete,  in  a  broken 
roar. 

"  'Deed  he's  gone,  seemingly,"  said  a  voice  out  of  the 
dark. 

Pete  did  not  hear.  Seeing  the  crowd  and  the  lights,  but 
only  as  darkness  veined  with  fire,  he  thought  Philip  was  com- 
ing again,  as  he  had  so  often  seen  him  come  in  his  glory,  in 
his  greatness,  in  his  triumph. 

''  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  roared.     "  He's  here,"  they  answered. 

And  then  Philip  was  brought  up  the  path  in  the  arms  of 
four  bearers,  his  head  hanging  aside  and  shaking  at  every  step, 
his  face  white  as  the  wig  above  it,  and  his  gown  trailing  along 
the  earth. 

There  was  a  sudden  calm,  and  Pete  dropped  back  in  awe 
and  horror.  A  bolt  out  of  heaven  seemed  to  have  fallen  at 
his  feet,  and  he  trembled  as  if  lightning  had  blinded  him. 

Dead! 

His  anger  had  ebbed,  his  fury  had  dashed  itself  against  a 
rock.  His  towering  rage  had  shrunk  to  nothing  in  the  face  of 
this  awful  presence.  The  Dark  Spirit  had  gone  before  him 
and  snatched  his  victim  out  of  his  hands.  He  had  come  out 
to  kill  this  man,  and  here  he  met  him  being  brought  home 
dead. 

Dead?  Then  his  sin  was  dead  also.  God  forgive  him! 
God  forgiv^e  him,  where  he  was  gone!  Presumptuous  man, 
stand  back. 

Oh,  mighty  and  merciful  Death!  Death  the  liberator,  the 
deliverer,  the  pardoner,  the  peace-maker!  Even  the  shadow 
of  thy  face  can  quench  the  fires  of  revenge ;  even  the  gather- 
ing of  thy  wings  can  deaden  the  clamour  of  madness,  and 
turn  hatred  into  love  and  curses  into  prayers. 


468  THE  MANXMAN. 


X. 

In  that  stripped  and  naked  house  there  was  one  room  still 
untouched.  It  was  the  room  that  had  heen  kept  for  the 
Deemster.  Philip  lay  on  the  bed,  motionless  and  apparently 
lifeless.  Jem-y-Lord  stood  beating  his  hands  at  the  foot. 
Pete  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  the  side  with  his  face  doubled  on  to 
his  knees.  Nancy,  now  back  from  Sulby,  was  blowing  into 
the  bars  of  the  grate  to  kindle  a  fii'e.  A  little  group  of  men 
stood  huddled  like  sheep  near  the  door. 

Some  one  said  the  Deemster's  heart  was  beating.  They 
brought  from  another  room  a  little  ivory  hand-glass  and  held 
it  over  the  mouth.  When  they  raised  it  the  face  of  the  mir- 
ror was  faintly  blurred. 

That  little  cloud  on  the  glass  seemed  more  bright  than  the 
shining  tread  of  an  angel  on  the  sea.  Jem-y-Lord  took  a 
sponge  and  began  to  moisten  the  cold  forehead.  One  by  one 
the  people  behind  produced  their  old  wife's  wisdom.  Some- 
body remembered  that  his  grandmother  always  put  salts  to 
the  nostrils  of  a  person  seemingly  dead;  somebody  else  re- 
membered that  when,  on  the  very  day  of  old  Iron  Christian's 
death,  his  father  had  been  thi'own  by  a  colt  and  lay  twelve 
hours  unconscious,  the  farrier  had  bled  him  and  he  had  opened 
his  eyes  instantly. 

The  doctor  had  been  half  an  hour  gone  to  Ballaugh,  and  a 
man  had  been  put  on  a  horse  and  sent  after  him.  But  it  was 
a  twelve-miles'  journey;  the  night  was  dark;  it  would  be  a 
good  hour  before  he  could  be  back. 

They  touched  Pete  on  the  shoulder  and  suggested  some- 
thing. 

"  Eh  ? "  he  answered  vacantly. 

"  Dazed,"  they  told  themselves.  The  poor  man  could  not 
give  a  wise-like  answer.  He  had  had  a  shock,  and  there  was 
worse  before  him.  They  talked  in  low  voices  of  Kate  and  of 
Ross  Christian ;  they  were  sorry  for  Pete ;  they  were  still  more 
sorry  for  the  Deemster. 

The  Deemster's  wig  had  been  taken  off  and  tossed  on  to 
the  dressing-table.  It  lay  mouth  upwards  like  any  old 
woman's  nigbt-cap.  His  hair  had  dragged  after  it  on  the  pil- 
low. The  black  gown  had  not  been  removed,  but  it  was  torn 
open  at  the  neck  so  that  the  throat  might  be  free.     One  of 


MAN  AND  GOD.  469 

Philip's  arms  had  dropped  over  tlie  side  of  the  bed,  and  the 
long,  thin  hand  was  cold  and  green  and  ethereal  as  marble. 

Pete  was  crouching  on  his  low  stool  beside  this  hand.  He 
needed  no  softening  to  touch  it  novv\  The  chill  fingers  were 
in  his  palm,  and  his  hot  teai*s  were  falling  on  them.  Remem- 
bering the  crime  that  he  had  so  nearly  committed,  he  was 
holding  himself  in  horror.  His  friend  !  His  life-long  friend  ! 
His  only  friend  !  The  Deemster  no  longer,  but  only  the  man. 
Not  the  man  either,  but  the  child.  The  cruel  yeai*s  had  rolled 
back  with  all  their  burden  of  trouble.  Forgotten  days  were 
come  again— days  long  buried  under  the  debris  of  memory. 
They  were  boys  together  again.  A  little,  sunny  fellow  in 
velvet,  and  a  bigger  lad  in  a  stocking-cap  ;  the  little  one  talk- 
ing, always  talking  ;  the  big  one  listening,  always  listening  ; 
the  little  one  proposing,  the  big  one  agreeing  ;  the  little  one 
leading,  the  big  one  following  ;  the  little  one  looking  up  and 
yet  a  little  down,  the  big  one  looking  down  and  yet  a  little  up. 
Oh,  the  happy,  happy  times,  before  anger  and  jealousy  and 
rage  and  the  mad  impulse  of  murder  had  darkened  their  sun 
shine  ! 

The  memories  that  brought  the  tenderest  throb  to  Pete  as 
he  sat  there  fingering  the  lifeless  hand  were  of  the  great  deeds 
that  he  had  done  for  Philip — how  he  had  fought  for  him,  and 
been  licked  for  him,  and  taken  bloody  noses  for  him,  and  got 
thrashed  for  it  by  Black  Tom.  But  there  were  others  only 
less  tender.  Philip  was  leaving  home  for  King  William's, 
and  Pete  was  cudgelling  his  dull  head  what  to  give  him  for  a 
parting  gift.  Decision  was  the  more  difficult  because  he  had 
nothing  to  give.  At  length  he  had  hit  on  making  a  whistle — 
the  only  thing  his  clumsy  fingers  had  ever  been  deft  at. 
With  his  clasp-knife  he  had  cut  a  wondrous  big  one  from  the 
bough  of  a  willow;  he  had  pared  it  ;  he  had  turned  it  ;  it 
blew  a  blast  like  a  fog-horn.  The  morning  was  frosty,  and 
his  feet  were  bare,  but  he  didn't  mind  the  cold  ;  he  didn't  feel 
it — no,  not  a  ha'p'orth.  He  was  behind  the  hedge  by  the  gate 
at  Ballure,.  waiting  for  the  coach  that  was  to  take  up  Philip, 
and  passing  the  time  by  polishing  the  whistle  on  the  leg  of 
his  shining  breeches,  and  testing  its  tone  with  just  one  more 
blow.  Then  up  came  Crow,  and  out  came  Philip  in  his  new 
peaked  cap  and  leggings.  Whoop  !  Gee-up  !  Away  !  Off 
they  went  without  ever  seeing  him,  without  once  looking 


470  THE  MANXMAN. 

back,  and  he  was  left  in  the  prickly  hedge  with  his  blue  feet 
on  the  frost,  a  look  of  dejection  about  his  mouth,  and  the  top 
of  the  foolish  whistle  peeping  out  of  his  jacket-pocket. 

The  thick  sob  that  came  of  these  memories  was  interrupted 
by  a  faint  sound  from  the  bed.  It  was  a  murmur  of  delirium, 
as  soft  as  the  hum  of  bees,  yet  Pete  heard  it. 

'*  Cover  me  up,  Pete,  cover  me  up  !  "  said  Philip,  dreaming 
aloud. 

Philip  was  a  living  man  !     Thank  God  I     Thank  God  ! 

A  whisper  goes  farther  than  a  shout.  The  people  behind 
whispered  the  news  to  the  passage,  the  passage  to  the  stairs, 
the  stairs  to  the  hall,  and  the  hall  to  the  garden,  where  a 
crowd  had  gathered  in  the  darkness  to  look  up  at  the  house 
over  which  the  angel  of  death  was  hovering. 

In  a  moment  the  room  was  croaking  like  a  frog-pond. 
"  Praise  the  Lord  !  "  cried  one.  "  His  mercy  endureth  for 
ever,"  cried  another.  "  What's  he  saying  ? "  said  a  third. 
"  Eambling  in  his  head,  poor  thing,"  said  a  fourth. 

Pete  turned  them  out— all  except  Jem-y-Lord,  who  was 
still  moistening  the  Deemster's  face  and  opening  his  hands, 
which  were  now  twitching  and  tightening. 

"  Out  of  this  !     Out  you  go  !  "  cried  Pete  hoarsely. 

"  No  use  taking  the  anger  with  him — the  man's  tried,"  they 
muttered,  and  away  they  went. 

Jemmy  was  loth  to  see  them  go.  He  was  afraid  to  be  left 
alone  with  Pete — afraid  that  the  Deemster  should  be  at  the 
mercy  of  this  wild  creature  with  the  flaming  eyes. 

And  now  that  Philip  was  a  living  man  Pete  began  to  feel 
afraid  of  himself.  At  sight  of  life  in  Philip's  face,  his  gnaw- 
ing misery  returned.  He  thought  his  hatred  had  been  over- 
come, but  he  was  wrestling  in  the  throes  of  forgiveness  again. 
Here  was  the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  wife  and  child  and 
home  !  In  another  moment  he  might  have  held  him  in  the 
grip  of  his  just  wrath. 

It  is  an  inscrutable  and  awful  fact,  that  just  at  that  moment 
when  a  man's  good  angel  has  conquered,  but  is  spent,  his  evil 
angel  is  sure  to  get  the  advantage  of  chance.  Philip's  deliri- 
um set  in  strong,  and  the  brute  beast  in  Pete,  going  through 
its  final  struggle,  stood  over  the  bed  and  watched  him.  In 
his  violence  Philip  tore  at  his  breast,  and  dragged  something 
from   beneath   his  shirt.     A  moment  later  it  fell  from   his 


MAN  AND  (JUD.  47I 

graspless  fin^^ers  to  the  floor.  It  was  a  lock  of  dark  liair. 
Pete  knew  whose  hair  it  was,  and  he  put  his  foot  on  it,  and 
that  instant  the  mad  impulse  came  ag:ain  to  take  Philip  by 
the  throat  and  choke  him.  Again  and  again  it  came.  He 
had  to  tread  it  down  even  amid  his  sobs  and  his  tears. 

But  love  cannot  be  killed  in  an  instant.  It  does  not  drop 
down  dead.  There  was  a  sort  of  tenderness  in  the  thought 
that  this  was  the  man  for  whom  Kate  had  given  up  all  the 
world.  Pete  began  to  feel  gently  towards  Philip  because 
Kate  loved  him;  he  began  to  see  something  of  Kate  in 
Philip's  face.  This  strange  softening  increased  as  he  caught 
the  words  of  Philip's  delirium.  He  thought  he  ought  to' leave 
the  room,  but  he  could  not  tear  himself  away.  Crouching 
down  on  the  stool,  he  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head, 
and  tightened  his  arms  over  his  ears.  It  was  useless.  He 
could  not  help  but  listen.  Only  disjointed  sentences,  odd 
pages  torn  from  the  book  of  life,  some  of  them  blurred  with 
tears  ;  but  they  were  like  a  cool  hand  on  a  fevered  brow  to 
him  that  heard  him. 

"  I  was  a  child,  Philip 1  didn't  know  what  love  was  then 

coming  home  by  Ramsey  steamer tell  the  simple  truth, 

Philip say  we  tried  to  be  faithful  and  loyal  and  could  not, 

because  we  loved  each  other,  and  there  was  no  help  for tell 

Kirry yes,  Auntie,  I  have  read  father's  letters that  pic- 
ture is  cracked " 

This  in  the  voice  of  one  who  speaks  in  his  sleep,  and  then 

in  a  hushed,  hot  whisper,  "  Haven't  I  a  right  to  you  ? yes, 

I  have  a  right take  your  topcoat,  then,  the  storm  is  com- 
ing  I'll  never  let  you  go don't  you  remember  ? can 

you  ever  forget my  husband  ! my  husband  !" 

Pete  lifted  his  head  as  he  listened.  He  had  been  thinking 
that  Philip  had  robbed  him  of  Kate.  Was  it  he  who  had 
robbed  Kate  of  Philip  ? 

"  I  can't  live  any  longer  in  this  house,  Philip the  walls 

are  crushing  me ;  the  ceiling  is  falling  on  me ;  the  air  is  stifling 
me three  o'clock,  Pete yes,  three  to-morrow,  in  the  Coun- 
cil  Chamber  at   Douglas I'm   not  a   bad    woman,  Philip 

Christian there  is  something  you  have  never  guessed  and  I 

have  never  told  you is  it  the  child,  Kate  ? did  you  say 

the  child  ? you  are  sure you  are  not  deceiving  your- 
self ?" 


472  THE  MANXMAN. 

All  this  in  a  tone  of  deep  entreaty,  and  then,  with  quick- 
coming-  breath,  "  Jemmy,  get  the  carriage  at  Shimmin's  and 

drive  it  yourself if  there  is  any  attempt  at  Ramsey  to  take 

the  horse  out drive  to  the  lane  between  the  chapel  and  the 

cottage the  moment  the  lady  joins  you you  are  right, 

Kate you  cannot  live  here  any  longer this  life  of  de- 
ception must  end that's  the  churring  of  the  night-jar  going 

up  to  Ballure  Grlen." 

Jem-y-Lord,  who  was  beating  out  the  pillow,  dropped  it, 
in  his  fumbling,  half  over  the  Deemster's  face,  and  looked  at 
Pete  in  terror.  Would  this  cruel  delirium  never  break? 
Where  was  the  doctor  ?    Would  he  not  come  at  all  ? 

Pete  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  was  gazing  down  with  a 
look  of  stupor.  He  had  been  thinking  that  Philip  had  robbed 
him  of  the  child.     Was  it  he  who  had  robbed  Philip  ? 

"  Yes,  Pete  is  telling  the  same  story.     He  is  writing  letters 

to    himself such  simple    things  I poor  old  Pete he 

means  no  harm he  never  dreams  that  every  word  is  burn- 
ing  Jemmy,  leave  out  more  brandy  to-night,  the  decanter 

is  empty " 

Pete  leaned  over  the  pillow.  All  at  once  he  started  back. 
Philip's  eyes  were  open  and  shining  up  at  him.  It  was  hard 
to  believe  that  Philip  was  not  speaking  to  him  eye  to  eye. 
But  there  was  a  veil  between  them,  the  veil  of  the  hand  of 
God. 

"J  know,  Philip,  I  know,"  said  the  unconscious  man  in  a 
quick  whisper  ;  he  was  breathing  fast  and  loud.     "  Tell  him 

I'm  dead yes,  yes,  that's  it,  that's  it cruel  ? no,  but 

kind 'Poor  girl,'  he'll   say,  'I  loved  her  once,  but  she's 

gone' I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it."     Then,  in  tones  of  fear,  ''It's 

madness to  paint  faces  on  the  darkness,  to  hear  voices  in 

the  air  is  madness."  And  then,  solemnly,  with  a  chill,  thick 
utterance,  '*  There there that  one  by  the  wall " 

Big  drops  of  sweat  broke  out  on  Pete's  forehead.  Had  he 
been  thinking  that  Philip  had  tortured  him  ?  It  was  he  who 
had  been  torturing  Philip.  The  letters,  the  messages,  the 
presents,  these  had  been  the  whips  and  scorpions  in  his  hand. 
Every  innocent  word,  every  look,  every  sign,  had  been  as 
thongs  in  the  instrument  of  torture.  Pete  began  to  feel  a 
great  pity  for  Philip.  "He  had  suffered  plenty,"  thought 
Pete.     "  He  has  carried  this  cross  about  far  enough." 


MAN    AND   GOU.  47;-} 

"  Good-night,  boatman ! 1  went  too  far yes,  I  am  back 

again,  thank  God " 

Tliese   words   briglitly,  cheerily,  hopefully  ;   then,  in  the 

deepest  tones,  "  Good-bye,  Philip it's  all  my  fault I've 

broken  the  heart  of  one  man,  and  I'm  destroying  the  soul  of 

another I'm  leaving  this  lock  of  hair— it  is  all  I  have  to 

leave good-bye  ! 1  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago you 

will  not  hate  me  now " 

The  last  words  frayed  off,  broke  in  the  throat,  and  stopped. 
Then  quickly,  with  panting  breath,  came,  ''  Kate  !  Kate  ! 
Kate  ! "  again  and  again  repeated,  beginning  in  a  loud  be- 
seeching cry  and  dying  down  to  a  long  wail,  as  if  shouted 
over  a  gloomy  waste  wherein  the  voice  was  lost. 

Jem-y-Lord  had  been  beating  round  towards  the  door, 
wringing  his  white  hands  like  a  woman,  and  praying  to  God 
that  the  Deemster  might  never  come  out  of  his  unconscious- 
ness. "He  has  told  him  everything,"  thought  Jem.  "The 
man  will  take  his  life." 

"  I  came  between  them,"  thought  Pete.  "  She  was  not  for 
me.  She  was  not  mine.  She  was  Philip's.  It  was  God's 
doings." 

The  bitterness  of  Pete's  heart  had  passed  away.     "  But  I 

wish what's  the  good  of  wishing,  though  ?    God  help  us 

all,"  he  muttered,  in  a  breaking  voice,  and  then  he  crouched 
down  on  the  stool  as  before  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

Philip  had  lifted  his  head  and  risen  on  one  elbow.  He  was 
looking  out  on  the  empty  air  with  his  glassy  eyes,  as  if  a  pic- 
ture stood  up  before  them. 

"  Yes,  no,  yes don't  tell  me that  Kate  ? it's  a  mis- 
take  that's  not  Kate that  white  face  ! those  hollow 

eyes  ! that  miserable  woman  ! besides,  Kate  is  dead 

she  must  be  dead what's  to  do  with  the  lamps  ? they  are 

going  out in  the  dock,  too,  and  before  me she  there  and 

I  here  ! she  the  prisoner,  I  the  judge  !  " 

All  this  with  violent  emotion,  and  with  one  arm  out- 
stretched over  Pete's  crouching  head. 

"  If  I  could  hear  her  voice,  though perhaps  her  voice 

now I'm    going  to    fall it's    Kate,    it's    Kate  !       Oh  ! 

oh  !" 

Philip  had  paused  for  several  seconds,  as  if  trying  to  listen, 


474  THE  MANXMAN. 

and  then,  with  a  loud  cry  of  agony,  lie  had  closed  his  eyes  and 
rolled  back  on  to  the  pillow. 

''  God  has  meant  me  to  hear  all  this,"  thought  Pete.  God 
had  intended  that  for  this,  the  peace  of  his  soul,  he  should 
follow  the  phases  of  this  drama  of  a  naked  heart.  He  was 
sobbing,  but  his  sobs  were  like  growls. 

"  What's  he  doing  now  ? "  thought  Jem-y-Lord,  craning 
his  neck  at  the  door.     "  Shall  I  call  for  somebody  ?  " 

Pete  had  picked  up  from  the  floor  the  lock  of  hair  that  had 
been  lying  under  his  foot,  and  he  was  putting  it  back  into 
Philip's  breast. 

"Nothing  but  me  between  them,"  he  thought^  "nothing 
but  me." 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  cried  the  unconscious  man.  It  was  only 
the  last  outbreak  of  Philip's  delirium,  but  Pete  trembled  and 
shrank  back. 

Then  Philip  groaned  and  his  blue  lips  quivered.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  They  wandered  about  the  room  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  afterwards  fixed  themselves  on  Pete  in  a  long  and 
haggard  gaze.  Pete's  own  eyes  were  too  full  of  tears  to  be 
full  of  sight,  but  he  could  see  that  the  change  had  come.  He 
panted  with  expectation,  and  looked  down  at  Philip  with  dog- 
like delight. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then,  in  a  voice  as  faint 

as  a  breath,  Philip  murmured.     "  What's where's is  it 

Pete  ? " 

At  that  Pete  uttered  a  shout  of  joy.  "  He's  himself  ! 
He's  himself  !    Thank  God  !  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Philip  helplessly. 

"  Don't  you  be  bothering  yourself  now,"  cried  Pete.  "  Lie 
quiet,  boy  ;  you're  in  your  own  room,  and  as  nice  as  nice." 

"  But,"  said  Philip,  "  will  you  not  kindly " 

"  Not  another  word,  Phil.  It's  nothing.  You're  all  serene, 
and  about  as  right  as  ninepence." 

"  Your  Honour  has  been  delirious,"  said  Jem-y-Lord. 

''  Chut  ! "  said  Pete  behind  his  hand,  and  then,  with  an- 
other joyful  shout  "  Is  it  a  beefsteak  you'll  be  having,  Phil, 
or  a  dish  of  tay  and  a  herring  ?  " 

Philip  looked  perplexed.     "  But  could  you  not  help  me " 

he  faltered. 

"  You  fainted  in  the  Court-house,  sir,"  said  Jem-y-Lord. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  475 

''  Ah  ! "    It  had  all  come  back. 

"Hould  your  whisht,  you  gawhie,"  whispered  Pete,  and  he 
made  a  furtive  kick  at  Jemmy's  sliins. 

Pete  was  laug-hing-  and  crying  in  one  breath.  In  the  joy- 
ful reflux  from  evil  passions  the  great  fellow  was  like  a  boy. 
He  poked  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  snufiFed  the  candle  with  his 
fingers,  sang  out  "My  gough  !"  when  he  burnt  them,  and 
tlien  hopped  about  the  floor  and  cut  as  many  capers  as  a  swal- 
low after  a  shower  of  rain. 

Philip  looked  at  him  and  relapsed  into  silence.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  liad  been  on  a  journey  and  something  had  happened 
in  his  absence.  The  secret  which  he  had  struggled  so  long  to 
confess  had  somehow  been  revealed. 

Jem-y-Lord  was  beating  out  his  pillows.  "  Does  he 
know  ?  "  said  Philip. — "Yes,"  whispered  Jemmy. 

"  Everything  ! " 

"Everything.     You  have  been  delirious." 

"Delirious  !  "  said  Philip,  with  alarm. 

Then  he  struggled  to  rise.  "Help  me  up.  Let  me  go 
away.     Why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  sir.     I  tried  to  prevent " 

"  I  cannot  face  him,"  said  Philip.  "  I  am  afraid.  Help 
me,  help  me." 

"  You  are  too  weak,  sir.  Lie  still.  No  one  shall  harm 
you.     The  doctor  is  coming." 

Philip  sank  back  with  a  look  of  fear.  "  Water,"  he  cried 
feebly. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Jem-y-Lord,  lifting  from  the  dressing- 
table  the  jug  out  of  which  he  had  moistened  the  sponge, 

"Tut  !  "  cried  Pete,  and  he  tipped  the  jug  so  that  half  the 
water  spilled.  "Brandy  for  a  man  when  he's  in  bed,  you 
goosey  gander.  Hould,  hard,  boy  ;  I've  a  taste  of  the  rael 
stuff  in  the  cupboard.  Half  a  minute,  mate.  A  drop  will  be 
doing  no  harm  at  all,"  and  away  he  went  down  the  stairs  like 
a  flood,  almost  sweeping  over  Nancy,  who  had  come  creeping 
up  in  her  stockings  at  the  sound  of  voices. 

The  child  had  awakened  in  its  cradle,  and,  with  one  dumpy 
leg  over  its  little  quilt,  it  was  holding  quiet  converse  with  its 
toes. 

"  Hollo,  young  cockalorum,  is  it  there  you  are  ? "  shouted 
Pete. 

31 


47G  THE  MANXMAN. 

At  the  next  moment,  with  a  noggin  bottle  of  brandy  in  bis 
fist,  he  was  leaping  upstairs,  three  steps  at  a  time. 

Meanwhile  Jem-y-Lord  had  edged  up  to  the  Deemster  and 
whispered,  with  looks  of  fear  and  mystery,  "  Don't  take  it,  sir/' 

"  What  ? "  said  Philip  vacantly.—"  The  brandy,"  said  Jem. 

''Eh?" 

"  It  will  be "  began  Jem,  but  Pete's  step  was  thundering 

up  the  stairs,  and  with  a  big  opening  of  the  mouth,  rather 
than  an  audible  utterance  of  the  tongue,  he  added,  "poisoned." 

Philip  could  not  comprehend,  and  Pete  came  shouting — 

''Where's  your  water,  now,  ould  Snuff -the- Wind  ?  " 

While  Pete  was  pouring  the  brandy  into  a  glass  and  add- 
ing the  water,  Jemmy  caught  up  a  scrap  of  newspaper  that 
was  lying  about,  rummaged  for  a  pencil,  wrote  some  words  on 
the  margin,  tore  the  f)iece  off,  and  smuggled  it  into  the  Deem- 
ster s  hand. 

"  Afraid  of  Pete  !  "  thought  Philip.  "  It  is  monstrous  ! 
monstrous  !  " 

At  that  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  road. 

"The  doctor,"  cried  Jem-y-Lord.  "The  doctor  at  last. 
Wait,  sir,  wait,"  and  he  ran  downstairs. 

"  Here  you  are,"  cried  Pete,  coming  to  the  bedside,  glass  in 
hand.  "  Drink  it  up,  boy.  It'll  stiffen  you.  My  faith,  but 
it's  a  oner.  Aw,  God  is  good,  though.  He's  all  that.  He's 
good  tremenjous." 

Pete  was  laughing  ;  he  was  crying  ;  he  was  tasting  a  new 
sweetness — the  sweetness  of  being  a  good  man  again. 

Philip  was  holding  Jem-y-Lord's  paper  before  his  eyes,  and 
trying  to  read  it. 

"  What's  this  that  Jemmy  has  given  me  ? "  he  said.  "  Read 
it,  Pete.     My  eyes  are  dazed." 

Pete  took  the  paper  in  his  left  hand,  still  holding  the  glass 
in  his  right.  To  get  the  light  on  to  the  writing  he  went  down 
on  his  knees  by  the  bed-head  and  leaned  over  towards  the  fire. 
Then,  like  a  school-boy  repeating  his  task,  he  read  in  a  sing- 
song voice  the  words  that  Jem-y-Lord  had  written  :— "  Don't 
drinh  the  brandy.     Pete  is  trying  to  kill  you.''' 

Pete  made  a  grating  laugh."  "  That's  a  pretty  thing  now," 
he  began,  but  he  could  not  finish.  His  laughter  ceased,  his 
eyes  opened  wide,  his  tongue  seemed  to  hang  out  of  his  mouth, 


MAN    AND   (iOD.  477 

and  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  back  with  an  agony  of 
doubt  into  Philip's  face. 

Philip  sti'ug-j^led  up.  "  Give  me  tlie  brandy,  Pete." 
He  took  tlie  p^lass  out  of  Pete's  hand,  and  without  a  second 
thouo:ht,  with  onh'  a  smile  of  faith  and  confidence,  he  raised 
it  to  his  lips  and  drank.  When  the  doctor  entei'ed  the  rooui 
a  moment  afterwards,  Pete  was  sobbing  into  the  bed-clotlies, 
and  Philip's  hand  was  resting-  on  his  head. 


XI. 

Early  the  next  morning  Pete  visited  Kate  in  prison.  He 
had  something  to  say  to  her,  something  to  ask  ;  but  he  in- 
tended to  keep  back  his  owm  feelings,  to  bear  himself  bravely, 
to  sustain  the  poor  girl's  courage.  The  light  was  cold  and 
ashen  ^vithin  the  prison  walls,  and  as  he  followed  the  sergeant 
into  the  cell,  he  could  not  help  but  think  of  Kate  as  he  had 
first  known  her,  so  bright,  so  merry,  so  full  of  life  and  gaiety. 
He  found  her  now  doubled  up  on  a  settle  by  a  newly-kindled 
fire  in  the  sergeant's  own  apartment.  She  lifted  her  head, 
with  a  terrified  look,  as  he  entered,  and  she  saw  his  hollow 
cheeks  and  deep  eyes  and  ragged  beard. 

"  I'm  not  coming  to  trouble  you,"  he  said.  "  I've  forgiven 
him,  and  I'm  forgiving  you,  too," 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  answered  nervously. 

''  Good  ? "  He  gave  a  crack  of  bitter  laughter.  "  I  meant 
to  kill  him — that's  how  good  I  am.  And  it's  the  same  as  if  all 
the  devils  out  of  hell  had  been  at  me  the  night  through  to  do 
it  still.  Maybe  I  hadn't  much  to  forgive.  I'm  like  a  bat  in 
the  light — I'm  not  knowing  where  I  am  ezactly.  Daresay  the 
people  will  laugh  at  me  when  they're  getting  to  know. 
Wouldn't  trust,  but  they'll  think  me  a  poor-spirited  cur,  any- 
way. Let  them — there's  never  much  pity  for  the  dog  that's 
licked." 

His  voice  shook,  although  so  hard  and  so  husky.  ''That's 
not  what  I  came  to  say,  though.  You'll  be  laving  this  place 
soon,  and  I'm  wanting  to  ask — I'm  wanting  to  know " 

She  had  covered  her  face,  and  now  she  said  through  her 
hands,  "  Do  as  vou  like  v>'ith  me,  Pete.  You  ai'e  my  husband, 
and  I  must  obey." 


478  THE   MANXMAN. 

He  looked  down  at  her  for  a  moment.  "  But  you  cannot 
love  me  ? " 

"  I  have  deceived  you,  and  whatever  you  tell  me  to  do  I 
will  do  it." 

"  But  you  cannot  love  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  a  good  w4fe  for  the  future,  Pete— I  will,  indeed,  in- 
deed I  will." 

"  But  you  cannot  love  me  ?  " 

She  began  to  cry.  "That's  enough,"  he  said.  "Ill  not 
force  you." 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  said  again. 

He  laughed  more  bitterly  than  before.  "  Dou  yo  think 
I'm  wanting  your  body  while  another  man  has  your  heart  ? 
That's  a  game  I've  played  about  long  enough,  I'm  thinking. 
Good  ?     Not  me,  missis." 

His  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  the  fi.re,  wandered  to  his 
wife,  and  then  his  lips  quivered  and  his  manner  changed. 

"I'm  hard— I'll  cut  it  short.  Fact  is,  I've  detarmined  to 
do  something,  but  I've  a  question  to  ask  first.  You've  suffered 
since  you  left  me,  Kate.  He  has  dragged  you  down  a  dale — 
but  tell  me,  do  you  love  him  still  ?  " 

She  shuddered  and  crept  closer  to  the  wall. 

"  Don't  be  freckened.  It's  a  woman's  way  to  love  the  man 
that's  done  wrong  by  her.  Being  good  to  her  is  nothing — 
sarvice  is  nothing — kindness  is  nothing.  Maybe  there's  some 
ones  that  cry  shame  on  her  for  that — but  not  me.  Giving 
herself,  body  and  soul,  and  thinking  nothing  what  she  gets 
for  it — that's  the  glory  of  a  woman  when  she  cares  for  any- 
body.    Spake  up,  Kate — do  you  love  him  in  spite  of  all  ?  " 

The  answer  came  in  a  whisper  that  was  like  a  breath — 
"Yes." 

"That'll  do,"  said  Pete. 

He  pressed  his  hand  against  the  place  of  his  old  wound. 
"  I  might  have  known  you  could  never  care  for  me — I  might 
have  known  that,"  he  said  with  difficulty.  "  But  don't  think 
I  can't  stand  my  rackups,  as  the  saying  is.  I  know  my  course 
now^ — I  know  my  job." 

She  was  sobbing  into  her  hands,  and  he  was  breathing  fast 
and  loud. 

"One  word  more — only  one— about  the  child." 

"  Little  Katherine  !" 


MAN   AND   GOD.  479 

"  Have  1  a  ri^lit  to  licr  ? " 

She  gasped  audibly,  but  did  not  answer,  and  lie  tried  a  sec- 
ond time. 

"  Does  she  belong  to  me,  Kate  ? " 

Her  confusion  increased.  He  tried  a  third  time,  spoakin<^ 
more  gently  than  before. 

"If  I  should  lave  the  island,  Kate,  could  I — must  I — may  I 
take  the  child  along  with  me  ?  " 

At  that  her  fear  got  the  better  of  her  shame,  and  she  cried, 
"  Don't  take  her  away.     Oh,  don't,  don't  ! " 

"Ah  !" 

He  pressed  his  hand  hard  at  his  side  again. 

"But  maybe  that's  only  mothers  love,  and  what  moth- 
er  " 

He  broke  off  and  then  began  once  more,  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  it  was  scarcely  to  be  heard,     "  Tell  me,  when  the  time 

comes— and  it  will  come,  Kate,  have  no  fear  about  that " 

He  was  breaking  down,  he  w^as  struggling  hard.  "  When  the 
time  comes  for  himself  and  you  to  be  together,  will  you  be 
afraid  to  have  the  little  one  with  you — will  it  seem  wrong, 
Kate — you  two  and  little  Katherine  —  one  household — one 
family — no  ? — n— o  ? " 

"No." 

"That's  enough." 

The  words  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  depths  of  his  throat. 
"  I've  nothing  more  to  think  about.  He  must  think  of  all  the 
rest." 

"  And  you,  Pete  ? " 

"What  matter  about  me?  D'ye  think  there's  anything 
worse  coming  ?  D'ye  think  I'm  caring  what  I  ate,  and  what 
I  drink,  and  what  becomes  of  me  ?" 

He  was  laughing  again,  and  her  sobs  broke  out  afresh. 

"  God  is  good,"  he  said  more  quietly.  "  He'll  take  care  of 
the  likes  of  me." 

His  motionless  eyes  were  on  the  crackling  fire,  and  he 
stood  in  the  light  that  flashed  from  it  with  a  face  like  stone. 
"I've  no  child  now,"  he  muttered,  as  though  speaking  to  him- 
self. 

She  slid  to  her  knees  at  his  feet,  took  the  hand  that  hung 
by  his  side  and  Dcgan  to  cover  it  with  kisses.  "Forgive  me," 
she  said  ;  "  I  have  been  very  weak  and  very  guilty." 


480  THE  MAXXMAN. 

"  What's  the  use  of  talking  like  that  ? "  he  answered. 
"  What's  past  is  past,"  and  he  drew  his  hand  away.  ''  Ko 
child  now,  no  child  now,''  he  muttered  again,  as  though  his 
dispair  cried  out  to  Grod. 

He  was  feeling  like  a  man  wrecked  in  mid-ocean.  A  spar 
came  floating  towards  him.  It  was  all  he  could  lay  hold  of 
from  the  foundering  ship,  in  which  he  had  sailed,  and  sung, 
and  laughed,  and  slept.  He  had  thought  to  save  his  life  hy  it, 
but  another  man  was  clinging  to  it,  and  he  had  to  drop  it  and 
go  down. 

She  could  not  look  into  his  face  again  ;  she  could  not  touch 
his  hand  ;  she  could  not  ask  for  his  forgiveness.  He  stood 
over  her  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  and  then,  with  his 
hollow  cheeks,  and  deep  eyes,  and  ragged  beard,  he  went  away 
in  the  morning  sunlight. 

xn, 

Philip  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  he  awoke,  he  saw,  as 
in  a  mirror,  a  solution  to  the  tumultuous  drama  of  his  life. 
It  was  a  glorious  solution,  a  liberating  and  redeeming  end,  an 
end  bringing  freedom  from  the  bonds  which  had  beset  him. 
What  matter  if  it  was  hard  ;  if  it  was  difficult  ;  if  it  was  bit- 
ter as  Marah  and  steep  as  Calvary  ?  He  was  ready,  he  was 
eager.  Oh,  blessed  sleep  !  Oh,  wise  and  soothing  sleep  !  It 
had  rent  the  dark  cloud  of  his  past  and  given  the  flash  of  light 
that  illumined  the  path  before  him. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  Auntie  Nan  seated  by  his  side, 
reading  a  volume  of  sermons.  At  the  change  in  his  breath- 
ing the  old  dove  looked  round,  dropped  the  book,  and  began 
to  flutter  about.     "  Hush,  dearest,  hush  !  "  she  whispered. 

There  was  a  heavy,  monotonous  sound,  like  the  beating  of 
a  distant  drum  or  the  throb  of  an  engine  under  the  earth. 

"  Auntie  ! '' — "  Yes,  dearest." 

''What  day  is  it?" 

"Sunday.  Oh,  you've  had  a  long,  long  sleep,  Philip.  You 
slept  all  day  yesterday. " 

"Is  that  the  church-bell  ringing  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  and  a  fine  morning,  too — so  soft  and  spring- 
like.    I'll  open  the  window." 

"Then  my  hearing  must  be  injured." 


MAN  AND  GOD.  ISL 

''All  !  thoy  nuilHod  the  hell — that's  it.  'The  ehmrh  is  so 
near,'  they  said,  'it  ini^hi  trouble  him.'" 

A  earriage  wa.s  coininj^  down  the  road.  It  rattled  on  tlio 
paved  way  ;  then  the  rattlinfj;-  ceased,  and  tliere  was  a  dull 
rumble  as  of  a  cart  slidinji-  on  to  a  wooden  bridge.  "That 
horse  has  fallen,"  said  Philip,  trying  to  rise. 

"It's  only  the  straw  on  the  street,"  said  Auntie  Nan.  "The 
people  brought  it  from  all  parts.  'We  nmst  deaden  the  tratlic 
by  the  house,'  they  said.  Oh,  you  couldn't  think  how  good 
they've  been.  Yesterday  was  market-day,  but  there  was  no 
business  done.  Couldn't  have  been;  they  were  coming  and 
going  the  whole  day  long.  '  And  how's  the  Deemster  now  ? ' 
'  And  how's  he  now  ? '  It  was  fit  to  make  you  cry.  t  believe 
in  my  heart,  Philip,  nobody  in  Ramsey  went  to  bed  the  first 
night  at  all.  Everybody  waiting  and  waiting  to  see  if  there 
wasn't  something  to  fetch,  and  the  kettle  kept  boiling  in  every 
kitchen  round  about.  But  hush,  dearest,  hush!  Not  so  nmch 
talking  all  at  once.     Hush,  now^  I  " 

"Where  is  Pete  ?  "  asked  Philip,  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Oiling  the  hinges  of  the  door,  dearest.  He  was  laying 
carpets  on  the  stairs  all  day  yesterday.  But  never  the  sound 
of  a  hammer.  The  man's  wonderful.  He  must  have  hands 
like  iron.  His  heart's  soft  enough,  though.  But  then  every- 
bod\'  is  so  kind — everybody,  everybody- 1  The  doctor,  and  the 
vicar,  and  the  newspaper— oh,  it's  beautiful !  It's  just  as  Pete 
was  saying." 

"  What  was  Pete  saying.  Auntie  ?  " 

"  He  was  saying  the  angels  must  think  there's  somebody 
sick  in  every  house  in  the  island." 

A  sound  of  singing  came  through  the  open  window%  above 
the  whisper  of  young  leaves  and  the  twitter  of  birds.  It  was 
the  psalm  that  was  being  sung  in  church — 

"  Bles.«!e(l  is  the  man  that  considereth  the  poor  and  needy; 
The  Ldrd  shall  deliver  him  in  time  of  trouble" 

"Listen,  Philip.  That  must  be  Especial  psalm.  Fin  sure 
they're  singing  it  for  you.  How  sweet  of  them  !  But  we  are 
talking  too  much.  dear.  The  doctor  will  scold.  I  nmst  leave 
you  now,  Philip.  Only  for  a  little,  though,  while  I  go  back  to 
Ballure,  and  I'll  send  u])  Cottier." 

"Yes,  send  up  Cottier,"  said  P!iilip. 


482  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  My  darling,"  said  the  old  soul,  looking*  down  as  she  bowed 
her  bonnet  strings.  ''  You'll  lie  quiet  now  ?  You're  sure  youU 
lie  quiet  ?     Well,  good  bye !  good-bye  I " 

As  Philip  lay  alone  the  t|par  and  swell  of  the  psalm  filled 
the  room.  Oh,  the  irony  of  it  all  I  The  frantic,  hideous,  aw- 
ful irony  I  He  was  lying  there,  he,  the  guilty  one,  with  the 
whole  island  watching  at  his  bedside,  pitying  him,  sorrowing 
for  him,  holding  its  breath  until  he  should  breathe,  and  she, 
his  partner,  his  victim,  his  innocent  victim,  was  in  jail,  in  dis- 
grace, in  a  degradation  more  deep  than  death.  Still  the  psalm 
soared  and  swelled.  He  tried  to  bury  his  head  in  the  pillows 
that  he  might  not  hear. 

Jem-y-Lord  came  in  hurriedly  and  Philip  beckoned  him 
close.     "  Where  is  she  ? ''  he  whispered. 

"They  removed  her  to  Castle  Rushen  late  last  night,  your 
Honour,"  said  Jemmy  softly. 

"  Write  immediately  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,"  said  Philip. 
"  Say  she  must  be  lodged  on  the  debtors'  side  and  have  pa- 
tients' diet  and  every  comfort.  My  Kate  I  my  Kate  I  "  he  kept 
saying,  "  it  shall  not  be  for  long,  not  for  long,  my  love,  not  for 
long!" 

The  convalescence  was  slow  and  Philip  was  impatient.  "  I 
feel  better  to-day,  doctor,''  he  would  say,  "  don't  you  think  I 
may  get  out  of  bed  ? '' 

''  Traa  dy  liooar  (time  enough).  Deemster,''  the  doc- 
tor would  answer.  ''Let  us  see  what  a  few  more  days 
will  do." 

"  I  have  a  great  task  before  me,  doctor,"  he  would  say  again. 
"  1  must  begin  immediately." 

"  You  have  a  life's  work  before  you.  Deemster,  and  you 
must  begin  soon,  but  not  just  yet.'' 

"  I  have  something  particular  to  do,  doctor,"  he  said  at  last. 
''  I  must  lose  no  time." 

''  You  must  lose  no  time  indeed,  that's  why  you  must  stay 
where  you  are  a  little  longer. '' 

One  morning  his  impatience  overcame  him,  and  he  got  out 
of  bed.  But.  being  on  his  feet,  his  head  reeled,  his  limbs  trem- 
bled, he  clutched  at  the  bed-post,  and  had  to  clamber  back. 
"  Oh  God,  bear  me  witness,  this  delay  is  not  my  fault,'"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Throughout  the  day  he  longed  for  the  night,  that  he  might 


MAN   AND   GOD.  483 

close  liis  eyes  in  the  darkness  and  tliink  of  Kate.  lie  tried  to 
think  of  her  as  she  used  to  he — hri<::ht,  hap])y,  winsome,  full  of 
joy,  of  love,  of  passion,  dan<]:lin<,'"  her  feet  from  the  ap|)le-ti'ee, 
or  tripping  along"  the  tree-trunk  in  the  glen,  teasing  him^ 
tempting  him.  It  was  impossible.  He  could  only  think  of 
her  ill  the  gloom  of  the  prison.  That  filled  his  mind  with  ter- 
rors. Sometimes  in  the  dark  hours  his  enfeebled  body  beset 
his  brain  with  fantastic  hallucinations.  Calling  for  paper  and 
pens,  he  would  make  show  of  writing  a  letter,  producing  no 
words  or  intelligible  signs,  but  only  a  mass  of  scrawls  and 
blotches.  This  he  would  fold  and  refold  with  great  elabora- 
tion, and  give  to  Jem  y-Lord  with  an  air  of  gravity  and  mys- 
tery, saying  in  a  whisper,  "  For  her!  "  Thus  night  brought  no 
solace,  and  the  dawn  found  him  waiting  for  the  day,  that  he 
might  open  his  eyes  in  the  sunlight  and  think,  "She  is  better 
where  she  is:  God  w^ill  comfort  her."' 

A  fortnight  went  by  and  he  saw  nothing  of  Pete.  At 
length  he  made  a  call  on  his  courage  and  said,  *'  Auntie,  why 
does  Pete  never  come  ?  " 

"  He  does,  dearest.  Only  when  you're  asleep,  though.  He 
stands  there  in  the  doorway  in  his  stockings.  I  nod  to  him 
and  he  comes  in  and  looks  down  at  you.  Then  he  goes  away 
without  a  w^ord." 

"  What  is  he  doing  now  ? " 

"  Going  to  Douglas  a  good  deal  seemingly.  Indeed,  they're 
saying — but  then  people  are  so  fond  of  talking." 

"  What  are  people  saying.  Auntie  ? " 

"  It's  about  a  divorce,  dearest ! " 

Philip  groaned  and  turned  away  his  face. 

He  opened  his  eyes  one  day  from  a  doze,  and  saw  the  plain 
face  of  Nancy  Joe,  framed  in  a  red  print  handkerchief.  The 
simple  creature  w^as  talking  with  Auntie  Nan,  holding  coun- 
cil, and  making  common  cause  with  the  dainty  old  lady  as 
unmarried  women  and  old  maids  both  of  them, 

"  '  Why  don't  you  keep  your  word  true  ? '  says  I.  '  Wasn't 
you  saying  you'd  take  her  back,'  says  I,  '  whatever  she'd  done 
and  whatever  she  was,  so  help  you  God  ?'  says  I,  'Isn't  she 
shamed  enough  already,  poor  thing,  without  you  going  sham- 
ing her  more  ?  Have  you  no  bowels  at  all  ?  Are  you  only 
another  of  the  gutted  herrings  on  a  stick? 'says  I.  'Why 
don't  you  keep  your  word  true  ? '     '  Because,'  says  he,  '  I  want 


4Si  THE  MANXMAN. 

to  be  even  with  the  other  one.'  says  he,  and  then  away  he  went 
wandering  down  by  the  tide." 

"  It's  unchristian.  Nancy,"  said  Auntie  Nan,  "  but  it's  hu- 
man ;  for  ahhough  he  forgives  the  woman,  he  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  forgive  the  man,  and  he  can't  punish  one  without 
X^unisbing  both  '' 

"  Much  good  it'll  do  to  punish  either,  say  I.  What  for 
should  he  put  up  his  fins  now  the  hook's  in  his  gizzard  ?  But 
that's  the  way  with  the  men  still.  Talking  and  talking  of 
love  and  love ;  but  when  trouble  is  coming,  no  better  than  a 
churn  of  sour  cream  on  a  thunder3'  day.  We're  best  oif  that 
never  had  no  truck  with  them — I  don't  know  what  you  think, 
Miss  Christian,  ma'am.  They  may  talk  about  having  no 
chances — I  don't  mind  if  they  do— do  you  ?  I  had  chance 
enough  once,  though — I  don't  know  what  you've  had,  ma'am. 
I  had  one  sweetheart,  anyway — a  sort  of  a  sweetheart,  as  you 
might  say ;  but  he  was  sweeter  on  the  money  than  on  me. 
Always  asking  how  much  I  had  got  saved  in  the  stocking. 
And  when  he  heard  I  had  three  new  dresses  done,  '  Nancy,' 
says  he,  '  we  had  better  be  putting  a  sight  up  on  the  parzon 
now,  before  they're  all  wore  out  at  you.'  " 

The  Governor,  who  was  still  in  London,  wrote  a  letter  full 
of  tender  solicitude  and  graceful  compliment.  The  Clerk  of 
the  Rolls  had  arranged  from  the  first  that  two  telegrams 
should  be  sent  to  him  daily,  giving  accounts  of  Philip's  condi- 
tion. At  last  the  Clerk  came  in  person,  and  threw  Auntie 
Nan  into  tremors  of  nervousness  by  his  noise  and  robustious- 
ness.  He  roarad  as  he  came  along  the  path,  roared  himself 
through  the  hall,  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  bedroom,  roared 
again  as  he  set  eyes  on  Philip,  protesting  that  the  sick  man 
was  worth  five  hundred  dead  men  yet,  and  vowing  with  an 
oath  (and  a  tear  trickling  down  his  nose)  that  he  would  like  to 
give  "time"  to  the  fools  who  frightened  good  people  with  bad 
reports.  Then  he  cleared  the  room  for  a  private  consultation. 
"  Out  you  go.  Cottier.     Look  slippy,  man  I  " 

Auntie  Nan  fled  in  terror.  When  she  had  summoned  reso- 
lution to  invade  afresh  the  place  of  the  bear  that  had  posses- 
sion of  her  lamb,  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  was  rising  from  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  saying — 

"  We'll  leave  it  at  that  then.  Christian.     These  d things 

will  happen ;  but  don't  you  bother  your  head  about  it.     1 11 


MAN   AND  (iOD.  4S5 

make  it  all  serene.  Besides,  it's  nothing — nothing  in  a  life- 
time. I'll  have  to  send  you  the  summons,  thouj^'-li.  You 
needn't  trouble  about  that;  just  toss  it  into  the  tire." 

Philip's  head  was  down,  his  eyes  were  on  the  counterpane, 
and  a  faint  tinjje  of  colour  ovei^spiead  liis  wasted  face. 

''Ah!  you're  back,  Miss  Christian?  I  must  be  going, 
though.  Good-bye,  old  fellow  !  Take  care  of  your.self — good 
men  are  scarce.  Good-bye,  Miss  Christian  !  Good-bye,  all  ! 
Good-bye,  Phil  !     God  bless  you  !  " 

With  that  he  went  roaring  down  the  stairs,  but  came 
tliunging  up  again  in.  a  moment,  put  his  head  round  the  door- 
post, and  said— 

"  Lord  bless  my  soul,  if  I  wasn't  forgetting  an  important 
bit  of  news — very  important  news,  too  !  It  hasn't  got  into  the 
papers  yet,  but  I've  had  the  official  wrinkle.  What  d'ye 
think  ? — the  Governor  has  resigned  !  True  as  gospel.  Sent 
in  his  resignation  to  the  Home  Office  the  night  before  last.  I 
saw  it  coming.  He  hasn't  been  at  home  since  Tynwald.  Look 
sharp  and  get  better  now\     Good-bye ! " 

Philip  got  up  for  the  first  time  the  day  following.  The 
weather  was  soft  and  full  of  whispers  of  spring;  the  window 
was  open  and  Philip  sat  with  his  face  in  the  direction  of  the 
sea.  Auntie  Nan  was  knitting  by  his  side  and  running  on 
with  homely  gossip.  The  familiar  and  genial  talk  w^as  float- 
ing over  the  surface  of  his  mind  as  a  sea-bird  floats  over  the 
surface  of  the  sea,  sometimes  reflected  in  it,  sometimes  skim- 
ming it,  sometimes  dipping  into  it  and  being  lost. 

"Poor  Pete!  The  good  woman  here  thinks  he's  liard. 
Perhaps  he  is;  but  I'm  sure  he  is  much  to  be  pitied.  Ross  has 
behaved  badly  and  deserves  all  that  can  come  to  him.  He's 
the  .same  to  me  as  you  are,  dear — in  blood,  I  mean — but  some- 
how I  can't  be  sorry.  .  .  .  Ah  !  you're  too  tender-hearted, 
Philip,  indeed  you  are.  You'd  find  excuses  for  anybody.  The 
doctor  says  overwork,  dearest;  but  I  say  the  shock  of  seeing 
that  poor  creature  in  that  awful  positi<m.  And  what  a  shock 
you  gave  me,  too!  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Philip,  I  thought  it 
was  a  fate.  Never  heard  of  it  ?  No  ?  Never  heard  that 
grandfather  fainted  on  the  bench  ?  He  did,  though,  and  he 
didn't  recover  either.  How  well  I  remember  it  !  Word  l)r()ke 
over  the  town  lik<;  a  clap  of  thunder,  'The  Deenistcr  has  fallrn 
in  the  Court-house.'     iiather  heard  it  up  at  Ballure  and  ran 


486  THE  MANXMAN. 

down  bareheaded.  Grandfather's  carria,ge  was  at  the  Court- 
house door,  and  they  brought  him  up  to  Ballawhaine.  I  re- 
member I  was  coming  downstairs  when  I  saw  the  carriage 
draw  up  at  the  gate.  The  next  minute  your  father,  with  his 
wild  eyes  and  his  bare  head,  was  lifting  something  out  of  the 
inside.  Poor  Tom !  He  had  never  set  foot  in  the  house  since 
grandfather  had  driven  him  out  of  it.  And  little  did  grand- 
father think  in  whose  arms  he  was  to  travel  the  last  stage  of 
his  life's  journey." 

Philip  had  fallen  asleep.  Jem-y-Lord  entered  with  a  letter. 
It  was  in  a  large  envelope  and  had  come  by  the  insular  post. 

"Shall  I  open  it?"  thought  Auntie  Nan.  She  had  been 
opening  and  replying  to  Philip's  letters  during  the  time  of  his 
illness,  but  this  one  bore  an  official  seal,  and  so  she  hesitated. 
"  Shall  I  ? "  she  thought,  with  the  knitting  needle  to  her  lip. 
''  I  will.     I  may  save  him  some  worry." 

She  fixed  her  glasses  and  drew  out  the  letter.  It  was  a 
summons  from  the  Chancery  Division  of  the  High  Court  of 
Justice — a  petition  for  divorce.  The  petitioner's  name  was 
Peter  Quilliam ;  the  respondent ,  the  co  respondent . 

As  Philip  awoke  from  his  doze,  with  the  salt  breath  of  the 
sea  in  his  nostrils  and  the  songs  of  spring  in  his  ears.  Auntie 
Nan  was  fumbling  with  the  paper  to  get  it  back  into  the  en- 
velope. Her  hands  trembled,  and  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
quivered.  Philip  saw  in  a  moment  what  had  happened.  She 
had  stumbled  into  the  pit  where  the  secret  of  his  life  lay 
buried. 

The  doctor  came  in  at  that  instant.  He  looked  attentively 
at  Auntie  Nan,  and  said  significantly,  "You  have  been  nurs- 
ing too  long,  Miss  Christian,  you  must  go  home  for  a  while." 

"I  will  go  home  at  once,"  she  faltered,  in  a  feeble  inward 
voice. 

Philip's  head  was  on  his  breast.  Such  was  the  first  step  on 
the  Calvary  he  intended  to  ascend.  O  God,  help  him  !  God 
support  him  !  God  bear  up  his  sinking  feet  that  he  might  not 
fall  from  weakness,  or  fear,  or  shame. 


MAN   AND   GOD.  4^7 

XIII. 

C^SAR  visited  Kate  at  Castle  Rushen.  He  found  her  lodj^ed 
in  a  large  and  light  apartment  (once  the  dining-room  of  the 
Lords  of  Man),  indulged  with  every  comfort,  and  short  of 
notliing  but  her  liberty.  As  the  turnkey  pulled  the  door  be- 
hind him,  Caesar  lifted  both  hands  and  cried,  "  The  Lord  is  my 
refuge  and  my  strength;  a  very  present  help  in  trouble." 
Then  he  inquired  if  Pete  had  been  there  before  him,  and  be- 
ing answered  "  No,"  he  said,  ''  The  children  of  this  world  are 
wiser  in  their  generation  than  the  children  of  light."  After 
that  he  fell  to  the  praise  of  the  Deemster,  who  had  not  only 
given  Kate  these  mercies,  comfortable  to  her  carnal  body,  if 
dangerous  to  her  soul,  but  had  striven  to  lighten  the  burden  of 
her  people  at  the  time  when  he  had  circulated  the  report  of 
her  death,  knowing  she  was  dead  indeed,  dead  in  trespasses 
and  sins,  and  choosing  rather  that  they  should  mourn  her  as 
one  who  was  already  dead  in  fact,  than  feel  shame  for  her  as 
one  that  was  yet  alive  in  iniquity. 

Finally,  he  dropped  his  handkerchief  on  to  the  slate  floor, 
went  down  on  one  knee  by  the  side  of  his  tall  hat,  and  called 
on  her  in  prayer  to  cast  in  her  lot  afresh  with  the  people  of 
God.  "May  her  lightness  be  rebuked,  O  Lord  !"  he  cried. 
"  Give  her  to  know  that  until  she  repents  she  hath  no  place 
among  Thy  children.  And,  Lord,  succour  Thy  servant  in  his 
hour  of  tribulation.  Let  him  be  well  girt  up  with  Christian 
armour.  Help  him  to  cry  aloud,  amid  his  tears  and  his  lamenta- 
tions, '  Though  my  heart  and  hers  should  break.  Thy  name 
shall  not  be  dishonoured,  my  Lord  and  my  God  ! '  " 

Rising  from  his  knee  and  dusting  it,  Caesar  took  up  his  tall 
hat,  and  left  Kate  as  he  had  found  her,  crouching  by  the  fire 
inside  the  wide  ingle  of  the  old  hall,  covering  her  face  and 
saying  nothing. 

He  was  in  this  mood  of  spiritual  exaltation  as  he  descended 
the  steps  into  the  Keep,  and  came  upon  a  man  in  the  dress  of 
a  prisoner  sweeping  with  a  besom.  It  was  Black  Tom.  Caesar 
stopped  in  front  of  him,  moved  his  lips,  lifted  his  face  to  the 
sky,  shut  both  eyes,  then  opened  them  again,  and  said  in  a 
voice  of  deep  sorrow,  '*  Aw,  Thomas  !  Thomas  Quilliam  I  I'm 
taking  grief  to  see  thee,  man.  An  ould  friend,  whose  hand  has 
rested  in  my  hand,  and  swilling  the  floor  of  a  prison  !     Well, 


488  THE  MANXMAN. 

I  warned  thee  often.  But  thou  wast  ever  stony  g-round,  Thomas. 
And  now  thou  must  see  for  thyself  whether  was  I  right  that 
honesty  is  the  better  policy.  Look  at  thee,  and  look  at  me. 
The  Lord  has  delivered  me,  and  prospered  me  even  in  temporal 
things.  I  have  lands  and  I  have  houses.  And  what  hast  thou 
thyself  ?  Nothing  but  thy  conscience  and  thy  disgrace.  Even 
thy  very  clothes  they  have  taken  away  from  thee,  and  they 
would  take  thy  hair  itself  if  thou  had  any." 

Black  Tom  stood  with  feet  flatly  planted  apart,  rested  him- 
self on  the  shank  of  his  besom,  and  said,  ''  Don't  be  playing 
cammag  (shindy)  with  me,  Mr.  Holy  Ghoster.  It  isn't  hon- 
estj^  that's  making  the  diff 'ranee  between  us  at  all — it's  luck. 
You've  won  and  IVe  lost,  you've  succeeded  and  I've  failed, 
you're  wearing  your  chapel  hat  and  I'm  in  this  bit  of  a  sauce- 
pan lid,  but  you're  only  a  reg'lar  ould  Pharisee,  anyway." 

Caesar  waved  his  hand.  "  I  can't  take  the  anger  with  thee, 
Thomas,"  he  said,  backing  himself  out.  "  I  thought  the  devil 
had  been  chained  since  our  last  camp-meeling,  but  I  was 
wrong  seemingly.  He  goeth  about  still  like  a  raging  lion, 
seeking  W'hom  he  may  devour." 

''  Don't  be  trying  to  knock  me  down  with  your  tex'es,"  said 
Thomas,  shouldering  his  besom.  "Any  cock  can  crow  on  his 
own  midden." 

''You  can't  help  it,  Thomas,"  said  Caesar,  edging  away. 
"  It  isn't  my  ould  friend  that's  blaspheming  at  all.  It's  the 
devil  that  has  entered  into  his  heart  and  is  rending  him.  But 
cast  the  devil  out,  man,  or  hell  will  be  thy  portion." 

"  I  was  there  last  night  in  my  dreams,  Caesar,"  said  Black 
Tom,  following  him  up.  "  '  Oh,  Lord  Devil,  let  me  in,'  says  I. 
'  Wliere  d'ye  come  from  ? '  says  he.  '  The  Isle  of  Man,'  says  I. 
'  I'm  not  taking  any  more  from  there  till  my  Bishop  comes,' 
says  he.  '  Who's  that  ? '  says  I.  '  Bishop  Ca3sar,  the  publican 
— who  else  ? '  says  he." 

"I  marvel  at  thee,  Thomas,"  said  Caesar,  half  through  the 
small  door  of  the  portcullis,  "but  the  sons  of  Belial  have  to 
fight  hard  for  his  throne.  I'll  pray  for  thee,  though,  that  it 
be  not  remembered  against  thee  when(D.V.)  there  will  be 
weeping  end  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth.'' 

That  night  Caesar  visited  the  Deemster  at  Elm  Cottage. 
His  eyes  glittered,  and  there  was  a  look  of  frenzy  in  his  face. 
He  was  still  in  his  mood  of  spiritual  pride,  and  when  he  spoke 


MAN    AND   GUD.  489 

it  was  always  witli  the  thecs  and  the  tlious  and  in  the  lii^^^li 
pitcli  of  the  prcac'lier. 

■'*  The  Bailawhaiue  is  dead,  your  Honour,"  he  cried,  "  They 
wouldn't  have  me  tell  thee  before  because  of  thy  body's  weak- 
ness, but  now  they  suiter  it.  Groauings  and  nioauing-s  and 
'stericks  of  torment!  Ter'ble  sir,  ter'ble!  Took  a  notion  ho 
would  have  water  poured  out  for  him  at  the  last.  It  couldn't 
wash  him  clane,  though.  And  shouting  with  his  dying  voice, 
'I've  sinned,  O  God,  I'v^e  sinned  !'  Oh,  I  delivered  my  soul, 
sir;  he  can  clear  me  of  that,  anyway.  'Lay  hould  of  a  free 
salvation,'  says  I.  'I've  not  lived  a  right  life,'  says  he. 
'Truth  enough,'  says  I;  'you've  lived  a  life  of  carnal  freedom, 
but  now  is  the  appointed  time.  Say,  "Lord,  I  belaive;  help 
thou  my  unbelaife."'  'Too  late,  Mr.  Cregeon,  too  late,' says 
he,  and  the  word  vs^as  scarce  out  of  his  mouth  when  he  was 
key-cold  in  a  minute,  and  gone  into  the  night  of  all  flesh 
that's  lost.  Well,  it  was  his  own  son  that  killed  him,  sir; 
robbed  him  of  every  silver  sixpence  and  ruined  him.  The  last 
mortgage  hfe  raised  was  to  keep  the  young  man  out  of  prison 
for  forgery.  Bad,  sir,  bad!  To  indulge  a  child  to  its  own 
damnation  is  bad.  A  human  infirmity,  though;  and  I'm  feel- 
ing for  the  poor  sinner  myself  being  tempted — that  is  to  say 
inclining — but  thank  the  Lord  for  his  strengthening  arm " 

"  Is  he  buried  ? "  asked  Philip. 

"  Buried  enough,  and  a  poor  funeral  too.  sir,"  said  Caesar, 
walking  the  room  with  a  proud  step,  the  legs  straightened, 
the  toes  conspicuously  turned  out.  "  Driving  rain  and  sleet, 
sir,  the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  grass  wet  to  your  calf,  and  the 
parson  in  his  white  smock  under  the  umbrella.  Nobody 
there  to  spake  of,  neither  ;  only  myself  and  the  tenants 
mostly.' 

"  Where  was  Ross  ?  " 

"Gone,  sir,  without  waiting  to  see  his  foolish  ould  father 
pushed  under  the  sod.  Well,  there  was  not  much  to  wait  for 
neither.  The  young  man  has  been  a  besom  of  fh*e  and  burnt 
up  everything.  Not  so  nmch  left  as  would  buy  a  rojjc  to  hang 
him.  And  Ballawhaine  is  mine,  sir;  mine  in  a  way  of  spak- 
ing — my  son-in-law's,  anyway — and  he  has  given  me  the  right 
to  have  and  to  hould  it.  Aw,  a  Sabbath  time,  sir  ;  a  Sabbath 
time.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  the  night  the  man 
struck  me  in   my  own   house  in  Sulby.     He   betrayed   my 


490  THE  MANXMAN. 

daughter  at  last,  sir,  and  took  her  from  her  home,  and  then 
her  husband  lent  six  thousand  pounds  on  mortgage.  'Do 
what  you  like  with  it,'  said  he,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  The  man 
shall  starve  ;  he  shall  be  a  beggar  ;  he  shall  have  neither 
bread  to  eat,  nor  water  to  drink,  nor  a  roof  to  cover  him.' 
And  the  moment  the  breath  was  out  of  the  ould  man's  body  I 
foreclosed. " 

Philip  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  "Do  you  mean," 
he  faltered,  "  that  that  was  your  reason  ?  " 

"It  is  the  Lord's  hand  on  a  rascal,"  said  Caesar,  "  and  proud 
am  I  to  be  the  instrument  of  his  vengeance.  '  God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way,'  sir.  Oh,  the  Lord  is  opening  His  word 
more  and  more.  And  I  have  more  to  tell  thee,  too.  Balla- 
whaine  would  belong  to  thyself,  sir,  if  every  one  had  his 
rights.  It  was  thy  grandfather's  inheritance,  and  it  should 
have  been  thy  father's,  and  it  ought  to  be  thine.  Take  it,  sir, 
take  it  on  thy  own  terms;  it  is  w^orth  a  matter  of  twelve 
thousand,  but  thou  shalt  have  it  for  nine,  and  pay  for  it  when 
the  Lord  gives  thee  substance.  Thou  hast  been  good  to  me 
and  to  mine,  and  especially  to  the  poor  lost  lamb  who  lies  in 
the  Castle  to-night  in  her  shame  and  disgrace.  Little  did  I 
think  I  should  ever  repay  thee,  though.  But  it  is  the  Lord's 
doings.  It  is  marvellous  in  our  eyes.  '  Deep  in  unfathomable 
mines ' " 

Caesar  was  pacing  the  room  and  speaking  in  tones  of  rap- 
ture. Philip,  who  was  sitting  at  the  table,  rose  from  it  with  a 
look  of  fear. 

''Frightful!  frightful!"  he  muttered.  "A  mistake!  a 
mistake !  " 

"  The  Lord  God  makes  no  mistakes,  sir,"  cried  Caesar. 

"  But  what  if  it  was  not  Ross "  began  Philip.     Caesar 

paid  no  heed. 

"  What  if  it  was  not  Ross "    Caesar  glanced  over  his 

shoulder. 

"What  if  it  was  some  one  else "said  Philip.     Caesar 

stopped  in  front  of  him. 

"  Some  one  you  have  never  thought  of— some  one  you  have 
respected  and  even  held  in  honour " 

"  Who,  then  ?  "  said  Caesar  huskily. 

"  Mr.  Cregeen,"  said  Philip,  "  it  is  hard  for  me  to  speak. 
I  had  not  intended  to  speak  yet ;  but  I  should  hold  myself  in 


MAN  AND  GOD.  491 

horror  if  I  were  silent  now.  You  have  been  livinp:  in  awful 
error.  Whatever  the  cost,  whatever  the  consequences,  you 
must  not  remain  in  that  error  a  moment  longer.  It  was  not 
Ross  who  took  away  your  daughter." 

"  Who  was  it  ? "  cried  Caesar.  His  voice  had  the  sound  of 
a  cracked  bell. 

Philip  struggled  hard.  He  tried  to  confess.  His  eyes 
wandered  about  the  walls.  '"  As  you  have  cherished  a  mis- 
taken resentment,"  he  faltered,  "so  you  have  nourished  a 
mistaken  gratitude." 

"  Who  ?  who  ? "  cried  Cassar,  looking  fixedly  into  Philip's 
face. 

Philip's  rigid  fingers  were  crawling  over  the  papers  on  the 
table  like  the  claws  of  crabs.  They  touched  the  summons 
from  the  Chancery  Court,  and  he  picked  it  up. 

"  Read  this,"  he  said,  and  held  it  out  to  Caesar. 

Caesar  took  it,  but  continued  to  look  at  Philip  with  eyes 
that  w^ere  threatening  in  their  wildness.  Philip  felt  that  in  a 
moment  their  positions  had  been  changed.  He  was  the  judge 
no  longer,  but  only  a  criminal  at  the  bar  of  this  old  man, 
this  grim  fanatic,  half-mad  already  with  religious  mania. 

''  The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  mighty,"  muttered  Caesar;  and  then 
Philip  heard  the  paper  crinkle  in  his  hands, 

Caesar  was  feeling  for  his  spectacles.  When  he  had  lib- 
erated them  from  the  sheath,  he  put  them  on  the  bridge  of  his 
nose  upside  down.  With  the  two  glasses  against  the  wrinkles 
of  his  forehead  and  his  eyes  still  uncovered,  he  held  the  paper 
at  arm's  length  and  tried  to  read  it.  Then  he  took  out  his 
red  print  handkerchief  to  dust  the  spectacles.  Fumbling  spec- 
tacles and  sheath  and  handkerchief  and  paper  in  his  trembling 
hands  together,  he  muttered  again  in  a  quavering  voice,  as  if 
to  fortify  himself  against  what  he  was  to  see,  "The  Lord  of 
Hosts  is  mighty." 

He  read  the  paper  at  length,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  it. 
"Quilliam  v.  Quilliam  and  Christian  (Philip)." 

He  laid  the  summons  on  the  table,  and  returned  his  specta- 
cles to  their  sheath.  His  breathing  made  noises  in  his  nos- 
trils. "  Ugh  cha  nee  !  "  (woe  is  me),  he  muttered.  "  Ugh  cha 
nee !    Ugh  cha  nee ! " 

Then  he  looked  helplessly  around  and  said,  "  Depart  from 
me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man,  O  Lord." 


492  THE  MANXMAN. 

The  vengeance  tliat  lie  had  built  up  day  by  day  had  fallen  in 
a  moment  into  ruins.  His  hypocrisy  was  stripped  naked.  "  I 
see  how  it  is/'  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  The  Lord  has  de- 
ceaved  me  to  punish  me.  It  is  the  public-house.  Ye  cannot 
serve  God  and  mammon.  What's  gained  on  the  devil's  back 
is  lost  under  his  belly.  I  thought  I  was  a  child  of  God,  but 
the  deceitfulness  of  riches  has  choked  the  word.  Ugh  cha 
nee  !  Ugh  cha  nee !  My  prosperity  has  been  like  the  quails, 
only  giv^en  with  the  intent  of  choking  me.     Ugh  cha  nee ! " 

His  spiritual  pride  was  broken  down.  The  Almighty  had 
refused  to  be  made  a  tool  of.  He  took  up  his  hat  and  rolled 
his  arm  over  it  the  wrong  way  of  the  nap.  Half-w^ay  to  the 
door  he  paused.  "Well,  I'll  be  laving  you;  good-day,  sir,"  he 
said,  nodding  his  head  slow^ly.  "The  Loi'd's  been  knowing 
what  you  were  all  the  time  seemingly.  But  what's  the  use  of 
Ilis  knowing  — He  never  tells  on  nobody.  And  I've  been  call- 
ing on  sinners  to  flee  from  the  wrath,  and  He's  been  letting 
the  devils  make  a  mock  at  myself  !  Ugh  cha  nee !  Ugh  cha 
nee ! " 

Philip  had  slipped  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  head  liad 
fallen  forward'  on  the  table.  He  heard  the  old  man  go  out; 
he  heard  his  heavy  step  drop  slowly  down  the  stairs;  he 
heard  his  foot  dragging  on  the  path  outside.  "  Ugh  cha  nee! 
Ugh  cha  nee  !  "     The  word  rang  in  his  heart  like  a  knell. 

Jem-y-Lord,  who  Lad  been  out  in  the  town,  came  back  in 
great  excitement. 

"  Such  news,  your  Honour  !     Such  splendid  news  ! " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Philip,  without  lifting  his  head. 

"  They're  signing  petitions  all  over  the  island,  asking  the 
Queen  to  make  you  Governor." 

"  God  in  heaven  !  "  said  Philip;  "  that  would  be  frightful." 


XIV. 

When  Philip  was  fit  to  go  out,  they  brought  up  a  carriage 
and  drove  him  round  the  bay.  The  town  had  awakened  from 
its  winter  sleep,  and  the  harbour  was  a  busy  and  cheerful 
scene.  More  than  a  hundred  men  had  come  from  their  crofts 
in  the  country,  and  were  making  their  boats  ready  for  the 
mackerel-fishing  at  Kinsale.      There  was  a  forest  of  masts 


MAN   AND   GOD.  493 

wliore  the  flat  hulls  had  hcen,  the  tafi'rails  and  coinpaiiions 
were  touched  up  with  paint,  and  the  newly-barked  nets  were 
bein<^  hauled  over  the  quay. 

'*  Good  morning",  Dempster,"  cried  the  men. 

They  all  saluted  him,  and  some  of  them,  after  their  Manx 
fashion,  drew  up  at  the  carriage-door,  lifted  their  caps  with 
their  tarry  hands,  and  said — 

"  Taking  joy  to  see  you  out  again,  Dempster.  When  a 
man's  getting  over  an  attack  like  that,  it's  middling  clear  the 
Lord's  got  work  for  him." 

Philip  answered  with  smiles  and  bows  and  cheerful  words, 
but  the  kindness  oppressed  him.  He  was  thinking  of  Kate. 
She  was  the  victim  of  his  success.  For  all  that  he  received 
she  had  paid  the  penalty.  He  thought  of  her  dreams,  her 
golden  dreams,  her  dreams  of  going  up  side  by  side  and  hand 
in  hand  with  the  man  she  loved.  "  Oh,  my  love,  my  love  !  " 
he  murmured.     "  Only  a  little  longer." 

The  doctor  was  waiting  for  him  when  he  reached  home. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Deemster,"  he  said,  with 
averted  face.     "  It's  about  your  aunt." 

"  Is  she  ill  ?  "  said  Philip.—"  Very  ill." 

"  But  I've  inquired  daily." 

"  By  her  express  desire  the  truth  has  been  kept  back  from 

you." 

"  The  carriage  is  still  at  the  door "  began  Philip. 

"  I've  never  seen  any  one  sink  so  rapidly.  She's  all  nerve. 
No  doubt  the  nursing  exhausted  her." 

"  It's  not  that — I'll  go  up  immediately." 

"  She  was  to  expect  you  at  five." 

"  I  cannot  wait,"  said  Philip,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  on 
the  road.  "  O  God  ! "  he  thought,  "  how  steep  is  the  path  I 
have  to  tread." 

On  getting  to  Ballure,  he  pushed  through  the  hall  and 
stepped  upstairs.  At  the  door  of  Auntie  Nan's  bedroom  he 
was  met  by  Martha,  the  housemaid,  now  the  nurse.  She 
looked  surprised,  and  made  some  nervous  show  of  shutting 
him  out.  Before  she  could  dc  so  he  was  already  in  the  room. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  smell  of  medicines  and  vinegar 
and  the  odours  of  sick  life. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Martha,  with  a  movement  of  lips  and  eye- 
brows. 


494:  THE  MANXMAN. 

Auntie  Nan  was  asleep  in  a  half -sitting  position  on  the  bed. 
It  was  a  shock  to  see  the  change  in  her.  The  beautiful  old 
face  was  white  and  drawn  with  pain  ;  the  chin  was  hanging 
heavily  ;  the  eyes  were  half  open  ;  there  was  no  cap  on  her 
head  ;  her  hair  was  straggling  loosely  and  was  dull  as  tow. 

"  She  must  be  very  ill,"  said  Philip  under  his  breath. 

"  Very,"  said  Martha.  "  She  wasn't  expecting  you  until 
five,  sir." 

"  Has  the  doctor  told  her  ?    Does  she  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  she  doesn't  mind  that.  She  knows  she's 
dying,  and  is  quite  resigned— quite — and  quite  cheerful — but 
she  fears  if  you  knew — hush  !  " 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  bed. 

"  She'll  be  shocked  if  she— and  she's  not  ready  to  receive — 
in  here,  sir,"  whispered  Martha,  and  she  n\otioned  to  the  back 
of  a  screen  that  stood  between  the  door  and  the  bed. 

There  was  a  deep  sigh,  a  sound  as  of  the  moistening  of  dry 
lips,  and  then  the  voice  of  Auntie  Nan — not  her  own  familiar 
voice,  but  a  sort  of  vanishing  echo  of  it.  "  Vv^hat  is  the  time, 
Martha  ? " 

"  Twenty  minutes  wanting  five,  ma'am." 

"  So  late  !  It  wasn't  nice  of  you  to  let  me  sleep  so  long, 
Martha.  I'm  expecting  the  Governor  at  five.  What  a  mercy 
he  hasn't  come  earlier.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  keep  him 
waiting,  and  then — bring  me  the  sponge,  girl.  Moisten  it  first. 
Now  the  towel.  The  comb  next.  That's  better.  How  lifeless 
my  hair  is,  though.  Oil,  you  say  ?  I  wonder  !  I've  never 
used  it  in  my  life  :  but  at  a  time  like  this— well,  just  a  little, 
then — there,  that  will  do.  Bring  me  a  cap— the  one  with  the 
pink  bow  in  it.  My  face  is  so  pale — it  will  give  me  a  little 
colour.  That  will  do.  You  couldn't  tell  I  had  been  ill,  could 
you  ?  Not  very  ill,  anyway  ?  Now  side  ever3^thing  away. 
The  medicines  too — put  them  in  the  cupboard.  So  many  bot- 
tles. '  How  ill  she  must  have  been  ! '  he  would  say.  And 
now  open  the  drawer  on  the  left,  Martha,  the  one  with  the  key 
in  it,  and  bring  me  the  paper  on  the  top.  Yes,  the  white  paper. 
The  folded  one  with  the  endorsement.  Endorsement  means 
writing  on  the  back,  Martha.  Ah  !  I've  lived  all  my  life 
among  lawyers.  Lay  it  on  the  counterpane.  The  keys  ?  Lay 
them  beside  it.  No,  put  them  behind  my  pillow,  just  at  my 
back.     Yes,  there — lower,  though,  deeper  still— that's  right. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  495 

Now  set  a  chair,  so  that  he  can  sit  beside  me.  This  side  of  the 
bed — no,  this  side.  Then  the  light  will  be  on  him,  and  I  will 
be  able  to  see  his  face — my  eyes  are  not  so  good  as  they  were, 
you  know.  A  little  farther  back— not  quite  so  much,  neither 
—that  will  do.     Ah  !  " 

There  was  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction,  and  then  Auntie 
Nan  said — 

"  I  suppose  it's what  time  is  it  now^,  Martha  ?  " 

''Ten  minutes  wanting  five,  ma'am." 

"  Did  you  tell  Jane  about  the  cutlets  ?  He  likes  them  with 
bread-crumbs,  you  know.  I  hope  she  won't  forget  to  say 
'Your  Excellency.'  I  shall  hear  his  voice  the  moment  he 
comes  into  the  hall.  My  ears  are  no  worse,  if  my  eyes  are. 
Perhaps  he  won't  speak,  though.  'She's  been  so  ill,'  he'll 
think.  Martha,  I  think  you  had  better  open  the  door.  Jane 
is  so  forgetful.  She  might  say  things,  too.  If  he  asks,  '  How 
is  she  to-day,  Martha  ? '  you  must  answer  quite  brightly,  '  Bet- 
ter to-day,  your  Excellency.' " 

There  was  an  exclamation  of  pain. 

"  Oh  !     Ugh— Oo  !     Oh,  blessed  Lord  Jesus  !  " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  well  enough,  ma'am  ?  Hadn't  I 
better  tell  him " 

"  No,  I'll  be  worse  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  worse  still. 
Give  me  a  dose  of  medicine,  Martha — the  morning  medicine— 
the  one  that  makes  me  cheerful.  Thank  you,  Martha.  If  I 
feel  the  pain  when  he  is  here,  I'll  bear  it  as  long  as  I  can,  and 
then  I'll  say,  '  I'm  finding  myself  drowsy,  Philip  ;  you  had 
better  go  and  lie  down.'    Will  you  understand  that,  Martha  ? " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Martha. 

"I'm  afraid  we  must  be  a  little  deceitful,  Martha.  But  we 
can't  help  that,  can  we  ?  You  see  he  has  to  be  installed  yet, 
and  that  is  ahvays  a  great  excitement.  If  he  thought  1  was 
very  ill,  now — very,  very  ill.  you  know — yes,  I  really  think  he 
would  wish  to  postpone  it,  and  I  wouldn't  have  that  for 
worlds  and  worlds.  He  has  always  been  so  fond  of  his  old 
auntie.  Well,  it's  the  way  with  these  boys.  ^  I  daresay  peoi)lc 
wonder  why  he  has  never  married,  being  so  great  and  so  pros- 
perous.    That  was  for  my  sake.     He  knew  I  should " 

Philip  was  breathing  heavily.    Auntie  Nan  listened.    ''I'm 

sure  there's  somebody  in  the  hall,  Martha.     Is  it ?     Yes, 

it's ;  Go  down  to  him  quick " 


400  TUE   MANXMAN. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Martha,  making  a  noise  with  the  screen 
to  cover  Philip's  escape  on  tiptoe.  Then  she  came  to  him  on 
the  landing,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron,  and  pretended 
to  lead  Philip  back  to  the  room. 

"  My  boy  !  my  boy  ! "  cried  Auntie  Nan,  and  she  folded 
him  in  her  arms. 

The  transformation  was  wonderful.  She  had  a  look  of 
youth  now,  almost  a  look  of  gaiety.  "  I Ve  heard  the  groat, 
great  news,"  she  whispered,  taking  his  hand. 

"That's  only  a  rumour.  Auntie,"  said  Philip.  "Are  you 
better  ? " 

"  Oh,  but  it  will  come  true.  Yes,  yes,  I'm  better.  I'm 
sure  it  will  come  true.  And,  dear  heart,  what  a  triumph  !  I 
dreamt  it  all  the  night  before  I  heard  of  it.  You  were  on  the 
top  of  the  Tynwald,  and  there  was  a  great  crowd.  But  come 
and  sit  down  and  tell  me  everything.  So  you  are  better  your- 
self ?  Quite  strong  again,  dear  ?  Oh,  yes,  anywhere,  Philip — 
sit  anywhere.  Here,  this  chair  will  do — this  one  by  my  side. 
Ah  !    How  well  you  look  !  " 

She  was  carried  away  by  her  own  gaiety.  Leaning  back 
on  the  pillow,  but  still  keeping  his  hand  in  hers,  she  said, 
"  Do  you  know,  Philip  Christian,  who  is  the  happiest  person 
in  the  world  ?  I'm  sure  you  don't,  for  all  you're  so  clever. 
So  I'll  tell  you.  Perhaps  you  think  it's  a  beautiful  young 
wife  just  married  to  a  husband  who  worships  her.  Well, 
you're  quite,  quite  wrong,  sir.  It's  an  old,  old  lady,  very,  very 
old,  and  very  feeble,  just  tottering  on,  and  not  expecting  to 
live  a  great  while  longer,  but  with  her  sons  about  her,  grown 
up,  and  big,  and  strorig,  and  having  all  the  world  before  them. 
That's  the  happiest  person  on  earth.  And  I'm  the  next  thing 
to  it,  for  my  boy— my  own  boy's  boy-; — " 

She  broke  off,  and  then,  with  a  far-off  look,  she  said,  "I 
wonder  will  he  think  I've  done  my  duty  ! " 

"Who?  "asked  Philip. 

"Your  father,"  she  answered. 

Then  she  turned  to  the  maid  and  said,  quite  gailj^ 
"You  needn't  wait,  Martha.  His  Excellency  will  call 
you  when  I  want  my  medicine.  Won't  you,  your  Excel- 
lency ? " 

Philip  could  not  find  it  in  Ids  heart  to  correct  her  again. 
The^girl  left  the  room.     Auntie  Nan  glanced  at  the  closing 


MAN  AND  GOD.  497 

door,  then  reached  over  to  PhiHp  with  an  air  of  great  mystery, 
and  whispei'ed — 

"You  nuistn't  be  shocked,  PhiHp,  or  surprised,  or  fancy 
I'm  very  ill,  or  that  I'm  going  to  die  ;  but  what  do  you  think 
I've  done?" 

"Nay,  what?" 

"  I've  made  my  will  !     Is  that  very  terrible  ?  " 

"  You've  done  right,  Auntie,"  said  Philip. 

"Yes,  the  High  Bailift'  has  been  up  and  everything  is  in 
order,  every  little  thing.  See,"  and  she  lifted  the  paper  that 
the  maid  had  laid  on  the  counterpane.  "Let  me  tell  you." 
She  nodded  her  head  as  she  ran  over  the  items,  "  Some  little 
legacies  first,  you  know.  There's  Martha,  such  a  good  girl — 
I've  left  her  my  silk  dresses.  Then  old  Mary,  the  housemaid 
at  Ballawhaine.  Poor  old  thing  !  she's  been  down  with  rheu- 
matism three  years,  and  flock  beds  get  so  lumpy — I've  left  her 
my  feather  one.  I  thought  at  first  1  should  like  you  to  have 
my  little  income.  Do  you  know,  your  old  auntie  is  quite  an 
old  miser.  I've  grown  so  fond  of  my  little  moneys  And  it 
seemed  so  sweet  to  think — but  then  you  don't  want  it  now, 
Philip.  It  w^ould  be  nothing  to  you,  would  it  ?  I've  been 
thinking,  though— no\v,  what  do  you  think  I've  been  think- 
ing of  doing  with  my  little  fortune  ?  " 

Philip  stroked  the  wrinkled  fingers  with  his  other  hand. 

"  What's  right,  I'm  sure.  Auntie.     What  is  it  ? " 

"  You  would  never  guess. " — "  No  ? " 

"I've  been  thinking,"  with  sudden  gravity.  "Philip, 
there's  nobody  in  the  world  so  unhappy  as  a  poor  gentle- 
woman who  has  slipped  and  fallen.  Then  this  one's  father, 
he  has  turned  his  back  on  her,  they're  telling  me,  and  of 
course  she  can't  expect  anything  from  her  husband.  I've 
been  thinking,  now " 

"Yes  ?"  said  Philip,  with  his  eyes  down. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I've  been  thinking  it  would  be  so 
nice " 

And  then,  nervously,  faltering,  in  a  quavering  voice,  with 
many  excuses,  out  came  the  great  secret,  the  mighty  strategy. 
Auntie  Nan  had  willed  her  fortune  to  Kate. 

"You're  an  angel.  Auntie,"  said  Philip  in  a  thick  voice. 

But  he  saw  through  her  artifice.  She  was  tiilking  of  Kate, 
but  she  was  thinking  of  himself.     She  was  trying  to  relieve 


498  THE  MANXMAN. 

him  of  an  embarrassment  ;  to  remove  an  impediment  that 
lay  in  his  path  ;  to  liberate  his  conscience  ;  to  cover  up  his 
fault ;  to  conceal  everything-. 

''And  then  this  house,  dear,"  said  Auntie  Nan.  "It's 
yours,  but  you'll  never  want  it.  It's  been  a  dear  little  harbour 
of  refuge,  but  the  storm  is  over  now.  Would  you— do  you 
see  any  objection — perhaps  you  might— could  you  not  let  the 
poor  soul  come  and  live  here  with  her  little  one,  after  I — 
when  all  is  over,  I  mean — and  she  is — eh  ? " 

Philip  could  not  speak.  He  took  the  wrinkled  hand  and 
drew  it  up  to  his  lips. 

The  old  soul  was  beside  herself  with  joy.  ''  Then  you're 
sure  I've  done  right  ?  Quite  sure  ?  Lock  it  up  in  the  drawer 
again,  dearest.  The  top  one  on  the  left.  Oh,  the  keys  ?  Dear 
me,  yes  ;  where  are  the  keys  ?  How  tiresome  !  I  remember 
now.  They're  at  the  back  of  my  pillow.  Will  you  call 
Martha  ?  Or  perhaps  you  would  yourself— will  you  ? "  (very 
artfully)—"  you  don't  mind  then  ?  Yes,  that's  it  ;  more  this 
way,  though,  a  little  more— ah  !    My  boy  !  my  boy  !  " 

The  old  dove's  second  strategy  had  succeeded  also.  In 
fumbling  behind  her  pillow  for  the  keys,  Philip  had  to  put 
his  arms  about  her  again,  and  she  was  kissing  him  on  the 
forehead  and  on  the  cheeks. 

Then  came  a  spasm  of  pain.  It  dragged  at  her  features, 
but  her  smile  struggled  through  it.  She  fetched  a  diificult 
breath,  and  said — 

"And  now — dear — I'm  finding  myself— a  little  drowsy- 
how  .selfish  of  me — your  cutlets — browned— nicely  browned — 
breadcrumbs,  you  know " 

Philip  fled  from  the  room  and  summoned  Martha.  He 
wandered  aimlessly  about  the  house  for  hours  that  night.  At 
one  moment  he  found  himself  in  the  blue  room,  Auntie  Nan's 
workroom,  so  full  of  her  familiar  things— the  spinning-wheel, 
the  frame  of  the  sampler,  the  old-fashioned  piano,  the  scent  of 
lavender— all  the  little  evidences  of  her  presence,  so  dainty,  so 
orderly,  so  sweet.  A  lamp  was  burning  for  the  convenience 
of  the  doctor,  but  there  was  no  fire. 

The  doctor  came  again  towards  ten  o'clock.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  ;  nothing  to  be  hoped  ;  still  she  might 
live  until  morning,  if 

At  midnight  Philip  crept  noiselessly  to  the  bedi'oom.     The 


MAN  AND  GOD.  4IIO 

coiiditiou  was  unaltered.  lie  was  j^oing  to  lie  down,  but 
wished  to  bo  awakened  if  there  was  any  change. 

It  was  lon<T:  before  lie  dro])])ed  off,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
slept  only  a  moment  when  tliere  was  a  knocking*  at  his  door. 
He  heard  it  wliilc  he  was  still  sleei)ing.  The  dawn  had  broken, 
the  streamers  of  the  sun  were  rising  out  of  the  sea.  A  spar- 
row in  the  garden  was  hacking  the  air  with  its  monotonous 
chirp. 

Auntie  Nan  was  far  spent,  yet  the  dragging  expression  of 
pain  was  gone,  and  a  serenity  almost  angelic  overspread  her 
face.  When  she  recognised  Philip  she  felt  for  his  hand, 
guided  it  to  her  heart,  and  kept  it  there.  Only  a  few  words 
did  she  speak,  for  her  breath  was  short.  She  commended  lier 
soul  to  God.  Then,  with  a  look  of  pallid  sunshine,  she  beck- 
oned to  Philip.  He  stooped  his  ear  to  her  lips,  and  she  wliis- 
pered,  "  Hush,  dearest  !  Never  tell  any  one,  for  nobody  ever 
knew — ever  dreamt — but  I  loved  your  father — and — God  gave 
him  to  me  in  you.^' 

Tlie  dear  old  dove  had  delivered  herself  of  her  last  great 
secret.  Philip  put  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  iced  already  over  the 
damps  and  chills  of  death.  Then  the  eyes  closed,  the  sweet 
old  head  slid  back,  the  lips  changed  their  colour,  but  still  lay 
open  as  with  a  smile.  Thus  died  Auntie  Nan,  peacefully,  hope- 
fully, trustfully,  almost  joyfully,  in  the  fulness  of  her  love  and 
of  her  pride. 

"O  God,"  thought  Philip,  "let  me  go  on  with  my  task. 
Give  me  strength  to  withstand  the  temptation  of  love  like 
this." 

Her  love  had  tempted  him  all  his  life  His  father  had  been 
twenty  years  dead,  but  she  had  kept  his  spirit  alive— his  aims, 
his  ambitions,  his  fears,  and  the  lessons  of  his  life.  There  lay 
the  beginnings  of  his  ruin,  his  degradation,  and  the  first  cause 
of  his  deep  duplicity.  He  had  recovered  everything  that  had 
been  lost  ;  he  had  gained  all  that  his  little  world  could  give  ; 
and  what  was  the  worth  of  it  ?  What  was  the  price  he  had 
paid  for  it  ?  "  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?" 

Philip  put  his  li])s  to  the  cold  forehead.  "Rweet  soul,  for- 
give me  !  God  strengthen  me  !  Let  me  not  fail  at  this  last 
moment." 


500  THE  MANXMAN. 


XV. 


Philip  did  not  go  back  to  Elm  Cottage.  He  buried  Auntie 
Nan  at  the  foot  of  his  father's  grave.  There  was  no  room  at 
either  side,  his  m  other's  sunken  grave  being  on  the  left  and 
the  railed  tomb  of  his  grandfather  on  the  right.  They  had  to 
remove  a  willow  two  feet  nearer  to  the  path. 

When  all  was  over  he  returned  home  alone,  and  spent  the 
afternoon  in  gathering  up  Auntie  Nan\s  personal  belougings, 
labelling  some  of  them  and  locking  them  uj)  in  the  blue  room. 
The  weather  had  been  troubled  for  some  days.  Spots  had  been 
seen  on  the  sun.  There  were  magnetic  disturbances,  and  on 
the  night  before  the  aurora  had  pulsed  in  the  northern  sky. 
When  the  sun  was  near  to  sinking  there  was  a  brilliant  lower 
sky  to  the  west,  with  a  bank  of  rolling  cloud  above  it  like  a 
thick  thatch  roof,  and  a  shaft  of  golden  light  dipping  down 
into  the  sea,  as  if  an  angel  had  opened  a  door  in  heaven. 
After  the  sun  had  gone  a  fiery  red  bar  stretched  across  the 
sky,  and  there  were  low  rumblings  of  thunder. 

Pausing  in  his  work  to  look  out  on  the  beach,  Philip  saw 
a  man  riding  hard  on  horseback.  It  was  a  messenger  from 
Government  Offices.  He  drew  up  at  the  gate.  A  moment 
later  the  messenger  was  in  Philip's  room  handing  him  a 
letter. 

If  anybody  had  seen  the  Deemster  as  he  took  that  letter  he 
must  have  thought  it  his  death-warrant.  A  deadly  pallor 
came  to  his  face  when  he  broke  the  seal  of  the  envelope  and 
drew  out  the  contents.  It  was  a  commission  from  the  Home 
Office.  Philip  was  appointed  Governor  of  the  Isle  of  Man. 
''  My  punishment,  my  punishment !  "  he  thought.  The  higher 
he  rose,  the  lower  he  had  to  fall.  It  was  a  cruel  kindness,  a 
painful  distinctioD,  an  awful  penalty.  Truly  the  steps  of  this 
Calvary  were  steep.     Would  he  ever  ascend  it  ? 

The  messenger  was  bowing  and  smirking  before  him. 
"Thousand  congratulations,  your  Excellency!  " 

"  Thank  you,  my  lad.  Go  dow^nstairs.  They'll  give  you 
something  to  eat." 

A  moment  later  Jem-y-Lord  came  into  the  room  on  some 
pretence  and  hopped  about  like  a  bird.  ''  Yes,  your  Excel- 
leDcy — No,  your  Excellency — Quite  so,  your  Excellency." 

Martha  came  next,  and  met  Philip  on  the  landing  with  a 


MAN  AND  GOD.  501 

courageous  smile  and  a  courtesy.  And  the  whole  house, 
lately  so  dark  and  sad,  seemed  to  lighten  and  to  laugh,  as 
when,  after  a  sleepless  night,  you  look,  and  lo!  the  dayliglit  is 
on  the  blind;  you  listen  and  the  birds  are  twittering  in  their 
cages  below  the  stairs. 

''  She  will  hear  it  too,"  thought  Philip. 

He  wrote  her  two  lines  of  a  letter,  the  first  that  he  had 
penned  since  his  illness — 

"Keep  up  heart,  dear ;  I  will  be  Nvith  you  soon." 

This,  without  signature  or  superscription,  he  put  into  an 
envelope,  and  addressed.  Then  he  went  out  and  posted  it 
himself. 

There  was  lightning  as  he  returned.  He  felt  as  if  he  would 
like  to  wander  away  in  it  down  to  Port  Mooar,  and  round  by 
the  caves,  and  under  the  cliffs,  where  the  sea-birds  scream. 


XVI. 

The  night  had  fallen,  and  he  was  sitting  in  his  room,  when 
there  was  a  clamour  of  loud  voices  in  the  hall.  Some  one  was 
calling  for  the  Deemster.  It  was  Nancy  Joe.  She  was  newly 
returned  from  Sulby.  Something  had  happened  to  Ca3sar, 
and  nobody  could  control  him. 

"  Go  to  him,  3^our  Honour,"  she  cried  from  the  doorway. 
''  It's  only  yourself  that  has  power  with  him,  and  we  don't 
know  in  the  world  what's  doing  on  the  man.  He's  got  a 
ram's  horn  at  him,  and  is  going  blowing  round  the  house  like 
the  mischief,  calling  on  the  Lord  to  bring  it  down,  and  say- 
ing it's  the  walls  of  Jericho." 

Philip  sent  for  a  carriage,  and  setoff  for  Sulby  immediately. 
The  storm  had  increased  by  this  time.  Loud  peals  of  thunder 
echoed  in  the  hills.  Forks  of  lightning  licked  the  trunks  of 
the  trees  and  ran  like  serpents  along  the  branches.  As  they 
were  going  by  the  church  at  Lezayre,  the  coachman  reached 
over  from  the  box,  and  said,  "  There's  something  going  doing 
over  yonder,  sir.     See  ?  " 

A  bright  gleam  lit  up  the  dark  sky  in  the  direction  they 
were  taking.  At  the  turn  of  the  road  by  the  *'  Ginger,"  some- 
body passed  them  running. 


502  THE  MANXMAN. 

"  What's  yonder  ?  "  called  the  coachman. 

And  a  voice  out  of  the  darkness  answered  him,  "  The  '  Fairy' 
is  struck  by  lightning,  and  Caesar's  goue  mad.'' 

It  was  the  fact.  While  Caesar  in  his  mania  had  been  blow- 
ing his  ram's  horn  around  his  public-house  under  the  delusion 
that  it  was  Jericho,  the  lightning  had  struck  it. 

The  fire  was  past  all  hope  of  subduing.  A  great  hole  had 
been  burnt  into  the  roof,  and  the  flames  were  leaping  through 
it  as  through  a  funnel.  All  Sulby  seemed  to  be  on  the  spot. 
Some  were  dragging  furniture  out  of  the  burning  house;  oth- 
ers were  running  with  buckets  to  the  river  and  throwing  water 
on  the  blazing  thatch. 

But  encircling  everything  was  the  figure  of  a  man  going 
round  and  round  \vith  great  plunging  strides,  over  the  road, 
across  the  river,  and  through  the  mill-pond  behind,  blowing  a 
horn  in  fierce,  unearthly  blasts,  and  crying  in  a  voice  of  tri- 
umph and  mockery,  first  to  this  worker  and  then  to  that,  ''No 
use,  I  tell  thee.  Thou  can  never  put  it  out.  It's  fire  from 
heaven.     Didn't  I  say  I'd  bring  it  down  ?  " 

It  was  Caesar.  His  eyes  glittered,  his  mouth  w^orked  con- 
vulsively, and  his  cheeks  were  as  black  w^ith  the  flying  soot  as 
the  "  coUey  "  of  the  pot. 

When  he  saw  Philip,  he  came  up  to  him  with  a  terrible 
smile  on  his  fierce  black  face,  and,  pointing  to  the  house,  he 
cried  above  the  babel  of  voices,  the  roar  of  the  thunder,  and 
crackle  of  the  fire,  "  An  unclean  spirit  lived  in  it,  sir.  It  lias 
been  tormenting  me  these  ten  years." 

He  seemed  to  listen  and  to  hear  something.  "  That's  it 
roaring,"  he  cried,  and  then  he  laughed  with  wild  delight. 

*'  Compose  yourself,  Mr.  Cregeen,"  said  Philip,  and  he  tried 
to  take  him  by  the  arm. 

But  Cassar  broke  away,  blew  a  terrific  blast  on  his  ram's 
horn,  and  went  striding  round  the  house  again.  When  he 
came  back  the  next  time  there  was  a  deep  roll  of  thunder  in 
the  air,  and  he  said,  "  It's  the  Ballawhaine.  He  had  the  stone 
five  years,  and  he  used  to  groan  so." 

Again  Philip  entreated  him  to  compose  himself.  It  was 
useless.  Round  and  round  the  burning  house  he  w^ent,  blow- 
ing his  horn,  and  calling  on  the  workers  to  stop  their  ungodly 
labour,  for  the  Lord  liad  told  him  to  blow^  down  the  walls  of 
Jericho,  and  he  had  burnt  them  dow^n  instead. 


MAX    AND   (lOD.  503 

The  people  be^an  to  be  afraid  of  his  frenzy.  "  Tliey'll  have 
to  put  tlie  niau  in  the  Castle,"  said  one.  "  Or  have  him  chained 
up  in  an  outhouse,"  said  another.  "They  kept  the  Kirk  Mau^- 
hold  lunatic  fifteen  years  on  the  straw  in  the  gable  loft,  and 
his  children  in  the  house  grew  up  to  be  men  and  women." 
"  It's  the  girl  that's  doing  on  Cicsar.  IShame  on  the  daughters 
that  bring  ruin  to  their  old  fathers !  " 

Still  Cuisar  went  careering  round  the  lire,  blowing  his  ram's 
horn  and  crying,  "  No  use!     It's  the  Lord  God ! " 

The  more  the  fire  blazed,  the  more  it  resisted  the  eiTorls  of 
tlie  people  to  subdue  it,  the  more  fierce  and  unearthly  wci'C 
Caesar's  blasts  and  the  more  triumphant  his  cries. 

At  last  Grannie  stepped  out  and  stopped  liim.  "Come 
home,  father,"  she  whimpered.  He  looked  at  her  with  bewil- 
dered eyes,  then  he  looked  at  the  burning  house,  and  he  seemed 
to  recover  himself  in  a  moment. 

"Come  home,  bogh,"  said  Grannie  tenderly. 

"I've  got  no  home,"  said  Caesar  in  a  helpless  way.  "And 
I've  got  no  money.     The  fire  has  taken  all." 

"  No  matter,  father,"  said  Grannie.  "  We  had  nothing  when 
we  began;  we'll  begin  again." 

Then  Caesar  fell  to  mumbling  texts  of  Scripture,  and  Gran- 
nie to  soothing  him  after  her  simple  fashion. 

"  '  My  soul  is  passing  through  deep  waters.  I  am  feeble  and 
«^ore  broken.  Save  me,  O  God,  for  the  waters  are  come  in 
unto  my  soul,  I  sink  in  deep  mire,  whei'e  there  is  no  stand- 
ing.'" 

"Aw,  no  Cagsar,  we're  on  the  road  now.  It's  dry  enough 
here,  anyway." 

"'Many  bulls  have  compassed  me;  great  bulls  of  Bashan 
have  beset  me  round.  Save  me  from  the  lion's  mouth ;  for 
Thou  hast  heard  me  from  the  horns  of  the  unicorn.'  " 

"Never  mind  the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  father,  but  come 
and  we'll  change  thy  wet  trousers." 

" '  Purge  me  with  hyssop,  and  I  shall  be  clean ;  wash  me, 
and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow.'" 

"Aw,  yes,  we'll  wash  thee  enough  when  we  get  to  Ramsey. 
Come,  then,  bogh." 

He  had  dropped  his  ram's  horn  somowhere,  and  she  took 
him  by  the  hand.  Then  he  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away, 
and  the  two  old  children  went  off  into  the  darkness. 


504  THE  MANXMAN. 


XVII. 

There  was  a  letter  waiting  for  Philip  at  home.  It  was 
from  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  Only  a  few  lines  scribbled  on 
the  back  of  a  draft  deposition,  telling  him  the  petition  for 
divorce  had  been  heard  that  day  within  closed  doors.  The 
application  had  been  granted,  and  all  was  settled  and  comfort- 
able. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  already  much  wounded  feel- 
ings, Christian,"  wrote  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  ''  or  to  add  any- 
thing to  your  responsibility  when  you  come  to  make  pro^nsion 
for  the  woman,  but  I  must  say  she  has  given  up  for  your  sake 
a  deuced  good  honest  fellow." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Philip  aloud. 

"  Vv  hen  I  told  him  that  all  was  over,  and  that  his  erring 
wife  would  trouble  him  no  more,  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
burst  out  crying." 

But  Philip  had  no  time  yet  to  think  of  Pete.  All  his  heart 
was  with  Kate,  She  would  receive  the  official  intimation  of 
the  divorce,  and  it  would  fall  on  her  in  her  prison  like  a  blow. 
She  would  think  of  herself,  with  all  the  world  against  her,  and 
of  him  with  all  the  world  at  his  feet.  He  wanted  to  run  to 
her,  to  pluck  her  up  in  his  arms,  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips,  and 
say,  "  Mine,  mine  at  last !  "  His  wife — her  husband — all  for- 
given— all  forgotten ! 

Philip  spent  the  rest  of  the  night  in  writing  a  letter  to  Kate. 
He  told  her  he  could  not  live  without  her;  that  now  for  the 
first  time  she  was  his,  and  he  was  hers,  and  thej'  were  one; 
that  their  love  was  re-born,  and  that  he  would  spend  the  future 
in  atoning  for  the  wrongs  he  had  inflicted  upon  her  in  the  past. 
Then  he  dropped  to  the  sheer  babble  of  affection  and  poured 
out  his  heart  to  her— all  the  babydom  of  love,  the  foolish 
prattle,  the  tender  nonsense.  What  matter  that  he  was  Gov- 
ernor now,  and  the  first  man  in  the  island  ?  He  forgot  all 
about  it.  What  matter  that  he  was  writing  to  a  fallen 
woman  in  prison  ?  He  only  remembered  it  to  forget  himself 
the  more. 

"Just  a  little  longer,  my  love,  just  a  little  longer.  I  am 
coming  to  you,  I  am  coming.  Older,  perhaps,  perhaps  sadder, 
and  a  boy  no  more,  but  hopeful  still,  and  ready  to  face  what- 
ever fate  befall,  with  her  I  love  beside  me." 


MAN  AND  GOD.  505 

Next  day  Jom-y-Lord  took  this  letter  to  Castle  Rushen  and 
brought  back  an  answer.  It  was  one  line  only — "  My  darlings ! 
At  last!  At  last!  Oh,  Philip!  Philip!  But  what  about  oiir 
child  r' 

XVIII. 

The  proclamation  of  Philip's  appointment  as  Governor  of 
the  Isle  of  Man  had  been  read  in  the  churches,  and  nailed  up 
on  the  doors  of  the  Court-houses,  and  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls 
was  pushing  on  the  arrangements  for  the  installation. 

"  Let  it  be  on  the  Tuesday  of  Easter  week,"  he  wrote,  "  and 
of  course  at  Castle  Rushen.  The  retiring  Governor  is  ready 
to  return  for  that  day  to  deliver  up  his  seals  of  ofRce  and  to 
receive  your  commission." 

"  P.  h.— Private.  And  if  you  think  that  soft- voiced  girl 
has  been  long  enough  'At  Her  Majesty's  pleasure,'  I  will  re- 
lease her.  Not  that  she  is  taking  any  harm  at  all,  but  we  had 
better  get  these  little  accounts  squared  off  before  your  great 
day  comes.  Meantime  you  may  wish  to  provide  for  her  fu- 
ture. Be  liberal.  Christian ;  you  can  afford  to  treat  her  liber- 
ally. But  what  am  I  saying  ?  Don't  I  know  that  you  will 
be  ridiculously  over-generous  ?  " 

Philip  answered  this  letter  promptly.  "  The  Tuesday  of 
Easter  week  will  do  as  well  as  any  other  day.  As  to  the  lady, 
let  her  stay  where  she  is  until  the  morning  of  the  ceremony, 
when  I  will  myself  settle  everything." 

Philip's  correspondence  was  now  plentiful,  and  he  had 
enough  work  to  cope  with  it.  The  four  towns  of  the  island 
vied  with  each  other  in  efforts  to  show  him  honour.  Douglas, 
as  the  scene  of  his  career,  wished  to  entertain  him  at  a  ban- 
quet; Ramsey,  as  his  birthplace,  wanted  to  follow  him  in  pro- 
cession.    He  declined  all  invitations. 

"  I  am  in  mourning,"  he  wrote.  "  And  besides,  I  am  not 
well." 

"Ah!  no,"  he  thought,  "  nobody  shall  reproach  me  when 
the  times  comes." 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  relenting  rest  in  the 
world's  kindness.  It  began  to  talce  shapes  of  almost  fiendish 
cruelty  in  his  mind,  as  if  the  devil's  own  laughter  was  bo- 
hind  it. 


506  THE   MANXMAN. 

He  inquired  about  Pete.  Hardly  anybody  knew  anything ; 
hardly  anybody  cared.  The  spendthrift  had  come  down  to 
his  last  shilling,  and  sold  up  the  remainder  of  his  furniture. 
The  broker  was  to  empty  the  house  on  Easter  Tuesday.  That 
was  all.  Not  a  word  about  the  divorce.  The  poor  neglected 
victim,  forgotten  in  the  turmoil  of  his  wrongdoer's  glory,  had 
that  last  strength  of  a  strong  man — the  strength  to  be  silent 
and  to  forgive. 

Philip  asked  about  the  child.  She  was  still  at  Elm  Cot- 
tage in  the  care  of  the  woman  with  the  upturned  nose  and  the 
shrill  voice.  Every  night  he  devised  plans  for  getting  posses- 
sion of  Kate's  little  one,  and  every  morning  he  abandoned 
them,  as  difficult  or  cruel  or  likely  to  be  spurned. 

On  Easter  Monday  he  was  busy  in  his  room  at  Ballure, 
with  a  mounted  messenger  riding  constantly  between  his  gate 
and  Grovernment  offices.  He  had  spent  the  morning  on  two 
important  letters.  Both  were  to  the  Home  Secretary.  One 
w^as  sealed  with  his  seal  as  Deemster  ;  the  other  was  written 
on  the  official  paper  of  Government  House.  He  was  instruct- 
ing the  messenger  to  register  these  letters  when,  through  the 
open  door,  he  heard  a  formidable  voice  in  the  hall.  It  was 
Pete's  voice.  A  moment  afterwards  Jem-y-Lord  came  up  with 
a  startled  face. 

"  He's  here  himself,  your  Excellency.  Whatever  am  I  to 
do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Bring  him  up,"  said  Philip. 

Jem  began  to  stammer.  "But — but— and  then  the  Bishop 
may  be  here  any  minute." 

'•  Ask  the  Bishop  to  wait  in  the  room  below." 

Pete  was  heard  coming  upstairs.  "  Aisy  all,  aisy !  Stoop 
your  HI  head,  bogh.     That's  the  ticket ! '' 

Philip  had  not  spoken  to  Pete  since  the  night  of  the 
drinking  of  the  brandy  and  water  in  the  bedroom.  He  could 
not  help  it— his  hand  shook.     There  would  be  a  painful  scene. 

"  Stoop  again,  darling.     There  you  are." 

And  then  Pete  was  in  the  room.  He  was  carrying  the 
child  on  one  shoulder;  they  were  both  in  their  best  clothes. 
Pete  looked  older  and  somewhat  thinner;  the  tan  of  his  cheeks 
was  fretted  out  in  pale  patches  under  the  eyes,  which  were 
nevertheless  bright.  He  had  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
fought  a  brave  fight  with  life  and  been  beaten,  yet  bore  the 


MAN  AND  GOD.  507 

world  no  j^rudpfo.     Jcm-y-Lord  and  the  messenger  were  f^onc 
from  tlie  room  in  a  moment,  and  the  door  was  closed. 

"What  d  ye  think  of  that,  Phil  ?     Isn't  she  a  lil  heauty  ?" 

Pete  was  dancing-  the  child  on  his  knee  and  looking  side- 
ways down  at  it  with  eyes  of  rapture. 

"  She's  as  sweet  as  an  aiig-el,"  said  Philip  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Isn't  she  now  ? "  said  Pete,  and  then  he  rattled  on  as  if 
he  were  the  happiest  man  alive.  "You've  been  wanting 
something  like  this  yourself  this  long  time,  Phil.  'Deed  you 
have,  though.  It  would  be  diverting  you  wonderful.  Ter'ble 
the  fun  there  is  in  babies.  Talk  about  play-actorers!  They're 
only  funeral  mutes  where  babies  come.  Bittending  this  and 
bittending  that — it's  mortal  amusing  they  are.  You'd  be  get- 
ting up  from  your  books,  tired  shocking,  and  ready  for  a  bit 
of  fun,  and  going  to  the  stair-head  and  shouting  down, 
'  Where's  my  lil  woman  ? '  Then  up  she'd  be  coming,  step  by 
step,  houlding  on  to  the  bannisters,  dot  and  carry  one.  And 
my  gracious,  the  dust  there'd  be  here  in  the  study !  You  down 
on  the  carpet  on  all  fours,  and  the  lil  one  straddled  across 
your  back  and  slijDping  down  to  your  neck.  Same  for  all  the 
world  as  the  man  in  the  picture  with  the  world  atop  of  his 
shoulders.  And  your  own  lil  world  would  be  up  there,  too, 
laughing  and  crowing  mortal.  And  then  at  night,  Phil,  at 
night — getting  up  from  your  summonses  and  your  warrantses, 
and  going  creeping  to  the  lil  one's  room  tippie-toe,  tippie  toe, 
and  ' Is  she  sleeping  comfor'bly  ? '  thinks  you;  and  listening 
at  the  crack  of  the  door,  and  hearing  her  breathing,  and  slip- 
ping in  to  look,  and  everything  quiet,  and  the  red  lire  on  her 
lil  face,  and  'God  bless  her,  the  darling!'  says  you,  and  then 
back  to  your  desk  content.  Aw,  you'll  have  to  be  having  a 
lil  one  of  your  own  one  of  these  days,  Phil." 

"He  has  come  to  say  something,"  thought  Philip. 

The  child  wriggled  oflP  Pete's  knee  and  began  to  creep 
about  the  floor.  Philip  tried  to  command  himself  and  to  talk 
easily. 

"And  how  have  you  been  yourself,  Pete  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Pete,  meddling  with  his  hair,  "only  mid- 
dling, somehow.''  He  looked  down  at  the  carpet,  and  faltered, 
"You'll  be  wondering  at  me,  Phil,  but,  you  see'' — he  hesitated 

— "  not  to  tell  you  a  word  of  a  lie "  then,  with  a  rush,  "  I'm 

going  foreign  again;  that's  the  fact." 
'S:] 


508  THE  MANXMAN. 

"Again?" 

"Well,  I  am,"  said  Pete,  looking  ashamed.  "Yes,  truth 
enough,  that's  what  I'm  thinking  of  doing.  You  see,"  with  a 
persuasive  air,  "  when  a  man's  bitten  by  travel  it's  like  the 
hydrophobia  ezactly,  he  can't  rest  no  time  in  one  bed  at  all. 
Must  be  running  here  and  running  there — and  running  regular. 
It's  the  way  with  me,  any  waj".  Used  to  think  the  ould  island 
would  be  big  enough  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  But,  no  !  I'm 
longing  shocking  for  the  mines  again,  and  the  compound,  and 
the  niggers,  and  the  wild  life  out  yonder.  'The  sea's  calling 
me,'  you  Imow."     And  then  he  laughed. 

Philip  understood  him — Pete  meant  to  take  himself  out  of 
the  way.     "  Shall  you  stay  long  ?"  he  faltered. 

"Well,  yes,  I  was  thinking  so,"  said  Pete.  "You  see,  the 
stuff  isn't  panning  out  now  same  as  it  used  to,  and  fortunes 
aren't  made  as  fast  as  they  were  in  my  time.  Not  that  I'm 
wanting  a  fortune,  neither — is  it  likely  now  ?  But,  still  and 
for  all— well,  I'll  be  away  a  good  spell,  anyway." 

Philip  tried  to  ask  if  he  intended  to  go  soon. 

"  To-morrow,  sir,  by  the  packet  to  Liverpool,  for  the  sailing 
on  Wednesday.  I've  been  going  the  rounds  saying  '  good- 
bye '  to  the  ould  chums— Jonaique,  and  John  the  Widow,  and 
Niplightly,  and  Kelly  the  postman.  Not  much  heart  at  some 
of  them  ;  just  a  bit  of  a  something  stowed  away  in  their  gib- 
lets ;  but  it  isn't  right  to  be  expecting  too  much  at  all.  This 
is  the  only  one  that  doesn't  seem  willing  to  part  with  me." 

Pete's  dog  had  followed  him  into  the  room,  and  was  sitting 
soberly  by  the  side  of  his  chair.  "  There's  no  shaking  him 
oflP,  poor  ould  chap." 

The  dog  got  up  and  wagged  his  stump. 

"Well,  we've  tramped  the  world  together,  haven't  we, 
Dempster  ?  He  doesn't  seem  tired  of  me  yet  neither. "  Pete's 
face  lengthened.  ''  But  there's  Grannie,  now.  The  ould 
angel  is  going  about  like  a  bit  of  a  thunder-cloud,  and  doesn't 
know  in  the  world  whether  to  burst  on  me  or  not.  Thinks 
I've  been  cruel,  seemingly.  I  can't  be  explaining  to  her 
neither.  Maybe  you'll  set  it  right  for  me  when  I'm  gone,  sir. 
It's  you  for  a  job  like  that,  you  know.  Don't  want  her  to  be 
thinking  hard  of  me,  poor  ould  thing." 

Pete  whistled  at  the  child,  and  halloed  to  it,  and  then,  in  a 
lower  tone,  he  continued,  "  Not  been  to  Castletown,  sir.     Got 


MAN   AND   (JOI).  509 

as  far  as  Ballasalla,  and  saw  the  castle  tower.  Tlien  my  heart 
was  losing  me,  and  I  turned  back.  You'll  say  good-bye  for' 
me,  Phil  Tell  her  I  forgave— no,  not  that,  though.  Say  I 
left  her  my  lov^e — that  won't  do  neither.  YouHl  know  best 
what  to  say  when  the  time  comes,  Phil,  so  I  lave  it  with  you. 
Maybe  you'll  tell  her  I  went  away  cheerful  and  content,  and, 
well,  happ}'- — why  not  ?  No  harm  in  saying  that  at  all.  Not 
breaking  my  heart,  anyway,  for  when  a  man's  a  man — H'm  ! " 
clearing  his  throat,  "  I'm  bad  dreadful  these  days  wanting  a 
smook  in  the  mornings.  May  I  smook  here  ?  I  may  ?  You're 
good,  too." 

He  cut  his  tobacco  with  his  discoloured  knife,  rolled  it, 
charged  his  pipe,  and  lit  it. 

"  Sorry  to  be  going  away  just  before  your  own  great  day, 
Phil.  I'll  get  the  skipper  to  fire  a  round  as  we're  steaming 
by  Castletown,  and  if  there's  a  band  aboord  I'll  tip  them  a 
trifle  to  play  '  Myle  Charaine.'  That'll  spake  to  you  like  the 
blackbird's  whistle,  as  the  saying  is.  Looks  like  deserting 
you,  though.  But,  chut  !  it  would  be  no  surprise  to  me  at  all. 
I've  seen  it  coming  these  years  and  years.  '  You'll  be  the  first 
Manxman  living,'  says  I  the  day  I  sailed  before.  You've  not 
deceaved  me  neither.  D'ye  remember  the  morning  on  the 
quay,  and  the  oath  between  the  pair  of  us  ?  Me  swearing  you 
same  as  a  high  bailiff — nothing  and  nobody  to  come  between 
us— d'ye  mind  it,  Phil  ?  And  nothing  has,  and  nothing 
shall.'' 

He  puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  said  significantly,  "  You'll  be 
getting  married  soon.  Aw,  you  will,  I  know  you  will,  I'm 
sarten  sure  you  will." 

Philip  could  not  look  into  his  face.  He  felt  little  and 
mean. 

"You're  a  wise  man,  sir,  and  a  great  man,  but  if  a  plain 
common  chap  may  give  you  a  bit  of  advice — aw,  but  you'll 
be  losing  no  time,  though.  I'll  not  be  here  myself  to  see  it. 
I'll  be  on  the  water,  maybe,  with  the  waves  washing  agen  the 
gun'ale,  and  the  wind  rattling  in  the  rigging,  and  the  ship  bur- 
rowing into  the  darkness  of  the  sea.  But  I'll  be  knowing  it's 
morning  at  home,  and  the  sun  shining,  and  a  sort  of  a  warm 
quietness  everywhere,  and  you  and  her  at  the  ould  church 
together." 

The  pipe  was  puffing  audibly. 


510  THE   MANXMAX. 

"  Tell  her  T  lave  her  my  blessing.  Tell  her— but  the  way 
I'm  smooking.  it's  shocking.  Your  curtains  Avill  be  smelling 
thick  twist  for  a  century." 

Philip's  moist  eyes  were  following  the  child  along  the 
floor. 

"  What  about  the  little  one  ?  "  he  asked  with  difficulty. 

"Ah  !  tell  you  the  truth,  Phil,  that's  the  for  I  came. 
Well,  mostly,  anyway.  You  see,  a  child  isn't  fit  for  a  com- 
pound ezactly.  Not  but  they're  thinking  diamonds  of  a  Ml 
thing  out  there,  specially  if  it's  a  girl.  But  still  and  for  all, 
Vv'ith  niggers  about  and  chaps  as  rough  as  a  thornbush  and  no 
manners  to  spake  of " 

Philip  interrupted  eagerly — "Will  you  leave  her  with 
Grannie  ? " 

"Well,  no,  that  wasn't  what  I  was  thinking.  Grannie's  a 
bit  ould  getting  and  she's  had  her  whack.  Wanting  aisement 
in  her  ould  days,  anj'way.  Then  she'll  be  knocking  under 
before  the  lil  one's  up — that's  only  to  be  expected.  No,  I  was 
thinking — what  d'ye  think  I  was  thinking  now  ? " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Philip  with  quick-coming  breath.  He  did 
not  raise  his  head. 

"  I  was  thinking — well,  yes,  I  was,  then — it's  a  fact,  though 
— I  was  thinking  maybe  yourself,  now " 

'•  Pete  !  " 

Philip  had  started  up  and  grasped  Pete  by  the  hand,  but  he 
could  say  no  more,  he  felt  crushed  by  Pete's  magnanimity. 
And  Pete  went  on  as  if  he  were  asking  a  great  favour. 
" '  She's  been  your  heart's  blood  to  you,  Pete,'  thinks  I  to  my- 
self, '  and  there  isn't  nobody  but  himself  you  could  trust  her 
wdth— nobody  else  you  would  give  her  up  to.  He'll  love  her,' 
thinks  I  :  '  he'll  cherish  her  ;  he'll  rear  her  as  if  she  was  his 
own  :  he'll  be  same  thing  as  a  father  itself  to  her ' " 

Philip  was  struggling  to  keep  up. 

"  I've  been  laving  something  for  her  too,"  said  Pete. 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  Yes,  though,  one  of  the  first  Manx  estates  going.  Caesar 
had  the  deeds,  but  I've  been  taking  them  to  the  High  Bailiff, 
and  doing  everything  reg'lar.     W^lien  I'm  gone,  sir " 

Philip  tried  to  protest. 

"  Aw,  but  a  man  can  lave  what  he  likes  to  his  own,  sir, 
can't  he  ? " 


Mx\N  AND  GOD.  511 

Philip  was  silent.  He  could  say  nothing.  The  make-be- 
lieve was  lo  be  kept  up  to  the  last  tragic  moment. 

"  And  out  yonder,  lying  on  my  bunk  in  the  sheds — good 
mattresses  and  thick  blankets,  Phil,  nothing  to  complain  of  at 
all — I'll  be  watching  her  growling  up,  year  by  year,  same  as  if 
she  was  under  my  eye  constant.  '  She's  in  pinafores  now ' 
thinks  I.  *  Now  she's  in  long  frocks,  and  is  doing  up  her 
hair.'  '  She's  as  straight  as  an  osier  now,  and  red  as  a  rose, 
and  the  best  looking  girl  in  the  island,  and  the  spitting  picture 
of  what  her  mother  used  to  be.'  Aw,  I'll  be  seeing  her  in  my 
mind's  eye,  sir,  plainer  nor  any  potegraph." 

Pete  puffed  furiously  at  his  pipe.  "  And  the  mother,  I'll 
be  seeing  herself,  too.  A  woman  every  inch  of  her,  God  bless 
her.  Wherever  there's  a  poor  girl  lying  in  her  shame  she'll 
be  there,  I'll  go  bail  on  that.  And  yourself-  -I'll  be  seeing 
yourself,  sir,  whiter,  maybe,  and  the  sun  going  down  on  you, 
but  strong  for  all.  And  when  any  poor  fellow  has  had  a 
knock-down  blow,  and  the  world  is  darkening  round  him, 
he'll  be  coming  to  you  for  light  and  for  strength,  and  j'ou'll 
be  houlding  out  the  right  hand  to  him,  because  you're  know- 
ing yourself  what  it  is  to  fall  and  get  up  again,  and  because 
you're  a  man,  and  God  has  made  friends  with  you." 

Pete  rammed  his  thumb  into  his  pipe,  and  stuffed  it,  still 
smoking,  into  his  waistcoat  jDocket.  "  Chut  !  "  he  said  huskily. 
"  The  talk  a  man'll  be  putting  out  when  he's  going  away  for- 
eign !  All  for  poethry  then,  or  something  of  that  spacious. 
H'm  !  h'm  ! "  clearing  his  throat,  ''  must  be  giving  up  the 
pipe,  though.     Not  much  worth  for  the  voice  at  all," 

Philip  could  not  speak.  The  strength  and  grandeur  of  the 
man  overwhelmed  him.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart  that  Pete 
could  never  see,  could  never  hear,  how  he  would  wash  away 
his  shame. 

The  child  had  crawled  across  the  room  to  an  open  cabinet 
that  stood  in  one  corner,  and  there  possessed  herself  of  a  shell, 
which  she  was  making  show  of  holding  to  her  ear. 

"Well,  did  you  ever?"  cried  Pete.  "Look  at  that  child 
now.  She's  knowing  it's  a  shell.  'Deed  she  is,  though.  Aw, 
crawling  reg'lar,  sir,  morning  to  night.  Would  you  like  to 
see  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  world,  Phil  ?  "  He  went  dow^n 
on  his  knees  and  held  out  his  arms.  "Come  here,  you  lil 
sandpiper.      Fix    that  chair  a  piece    nearer,   sir — that's  the 


512      '  THE  MANXMAN. 

ticket.  Good  thing  Nancy  isn't  here.  She'd  be  on  to  us  hke 
the  mischief.  Wonderful  handy  with  babies,  though,  and  if 
anybody  was  wanting  a  nurse  now — a  stepmother's  breath  is 
cold— but  Nancy  !  My  gough,  you  daren't  look  over  the 
hedge  at  her  lammie  but  she's  shouting  fit  for  an  earthwake. 
Stand  nice,  now,  Kitty,  stand  nice,  bogh  !  The  woman's 
about  right,  too — the  lil  one's  legs  are  like  bits  of  qualebone. 
'Come,  now,  bogh,  come  ?  " 

Pete  put  the  child  to  stand  with  its  back  to  the  chair,  and 
then  leaned  towards  it  with  his  arms  outspread.  The  child  stag- 
gered a  step  in  the  sea  of  one  yard's  space  that  lay  between, 
looked  back  at  the  irrecoverable  chair,  looked  down  on  the 
distant  ground,  and  then  plunged  forward  with  a  nervous 
laugh,  and  fell  into  Pete's  arms. 

"  Bravo  !  Wasn't  that  nice,  Phil  ?  Ever  see  anything 
prettier  than  a  child's  first  step  ?  Again,  Kitty,  bogh  !  But 
go  to  your  neiv  father  this  time.  Aisy,  now,  aisy !  "  (in  a  thick 
voice).  "  Give  me  a  kiss  first  ! "  (with  a  choking  gurgle). 
"One  more,  darling!"  (with  a  broken  laugh).  "Now  face 
the  other  way.     One — two — are  you  ready,  Phil  ? " 

Phil  held  out  his  long  white  trembling  hands. 

"  Yes,"  with  a  smothered  sob. 

"  Three — four — and  away  ! " 

The  child's  fingers  slipped  into  Philip's  palm  ;  there  was 
another  halt,  another  plunge,  another  nervous  laugh,  and  then 
the  child  was  in  Philip's  arms,  his  head  was  over  it,  and  he 
was  clasping  it  to  his  heart. 

After  a  moment,  Philip,  without  raising  his  eyes,  said, 
"Pete!" 

But  Pete  had  stolen  softly  from  the  room. 

"  Pete  !  where  are  you  ? " 

Where  was  he  ?  He  was  on  the  road  outside,  crying  like  a 
boy— no,  like  a  man— at  thought  of  the  happiness  he  had  left 
upstairs. 

XIX. 

The  town  of  Peel  was  in  a  great  commotion  that  night. 
It  was  the  night  of  St.  Patrick's  Day,  and  the  mackerel  fleet 
were  leaving  for  Kinsale.  A  hundred  and  fifty  boats  lay  in 
the  harbour,  each  with  a  light  in  its  binnacle,  a  fire  in  its 


MAN  AND  GOD.  513 

cabin,  smoke  coming  from  its  stove-pipe,  and  its  sails  half-set. 
The  sea  was  fi-esh  ;  there  was  a  smart  breeze  from  the  north- 
west, and  the  air  was  full  of  the  brine.  At  the  turn  of  the 
tide  the  boats  began  to  drop  clown  the  harbour.  Then  there 
was  a  rush  of  women  and  children  and  old  men  to  the  end  of 
tbe  pier.  Mothers  were  seeing  their  sons  off,  women  their 
husbands,  children  their  fathers,  girls  their  boys — all  full  of 
fun  and  laughter  and  joyful  cries. 

One  of  the  girls  remembered  that  the  men  were  leaving  the 
island  before  the  installation  of  the  new  Governor.  Straiglit- 
way  they  started  a  game  of  make-believe — the  make-believe 
of  electing  the  Governor  for  themselves. 

"  Who  are  you  voting  for,  Mr.  Quayle  ? " — "  Aw,  Dempster 
Christian,  of  coorse." — "Throw  us  your  rope,  then,  and  we'll 
give  you  a  pull." — "Heave  oh,  girls."  And  the  rope  would 
be  whipped  round  a  mooring-post  on  the  quay,  twenty  girls 
would  seize  it,  and  the  boat  would  go  slipping  past  the  pier, 
round  the  castle  rocks,  and  then  away  before  the  north-wester 
like  a  gull. 

"  Good  luck,  Harry  ! " — "  Whips  of  money  coming  home, 
Jem  !  " — "  Write  us  a  letter — mind  you  write,  now  ! " — "  Good- 
night, father  ! " 

No  crying  yet,  no  sign  of  tears — nothing  but  fresh  young 
faces,  bright  eyes,  and  peals  of  laughter,  as  one  by  one  the 
boats  slid  out  into  the  fresh,  green  water  of  the  bay,  and  the 
wind  took  them,  and  they  shot  into  the  night.  Even  the  dogs 
on  the  quay  frisked  about,  and  barked  as  if  they  were  going 
crazy  with  delight. 

In  the  midst  of  this  happy  scene,  a  man,  wearing  a  monkey- 
jacket  and  a  wide-brimmed  soft  hat,  came  up  to  the  harbour 
with  a  little  misshapen  dog  at  his  heels.  He  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment as  if  bewildered  by  the  strange  midnight  spectacle  before 
him.  Then  he  walked  through  the  throng  of  young  people, 
and  listened  awhile  to  their  talk  and  laughter.  No  one  spoke 
to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  no  one.  His  dog  followed  with  its 
nose  at  his  ankles.  If  some  other  dog,  in  youthful  frolic, 
frisked  and  barked  about  it,  it  snarled  and  sna])ped,  and  then 
croodled  down  at  his  master's  feet  and  looked  ashamed. 

"  Dempster,  Dempster,  getting  a'bit  ould,  eh  ? "  said  the  man. 

After  a  little  while  he  went  quietly  away.  Nobody  missed 
him  ;  nobody  had  observed  him.     He  had  gone  back  to  the 


514  THE  MANXMAN. 

town.  At  a  baker's  shop,  which  was  still  open  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  departing  fleet,  he  bought  a  seaman's  biscuit. 
With  this  he  returned  to  the  harbour  by  way  of  the  shore. 
At  the  slip  by  the  Rocket  House  he  went  down  to  the  beach 
and  searched  among  the  shingle  until  he  found  a  stone  like  a 
dumb-bell,  large  at  the  ends  and  narrow  in  the  middle.  Then 
he  went  back  to  the  quay.  The  dog  followed  him  and  watched 
him. 

The  last  of  the  boats  was  out  in  the  bay  by  this  time.  She 
could  be  seen  quite  plainly  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  green 
blade  of  a  wave  breaking  on  her  quarter.  Somebody  was 
carrying  a  light  on  her  deck,  and  the  giant  shadow  of  a  man's 
figure  was  cast  up  on  the  new  lugsail.  There  were  shouts  and 
answers  across  the  splashing  water.  Then  a  fresh  young  voice 
on  the  boat  began  to  sing  "  Lovely  Mona,  fare  thee  well."  The 
^vomen  took  it  up,  and  the  two  companies  sang  it  in  turns, 
verse  by  verse,  the  women  on  the  quay  and  the  men  on  the 
boat,  with  tlie  sea  growing  wider  between  them. 

An  old  fisherman  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd  had  a  little 
girl  on  his  shoulder. 

"You'll  not  be  going  to  Kinsale  this  time,  mate  ?"  said  a 
voice  behind  him. 

"Aw,  no,  sir.  I've  seen  the  day,  though.  Thirty  years  I 
was  going,  and  better.     But  I'm  done  now." 

"  Well,  that's  the  way,  you  see.  It's  the  turn  of  the  young 
ones  now.  Let  them  sing,  God  bless  them  !  '  We're  not  going 
to  fret,  though,  are  we  ?  There's  one  thing  we  can  always  do 
— we  can  always  remember,  and  that's  some  constilation, 
isn't  it." 

"  I'm  doing  it  reg'lar."  said  the  old  fisherman. 

"  After  all,  it's  been  a  good  thing  to  live,  and  when  a  man's 
time  comes  it'll  not  be  such  a  darned  bad  thing  to  die  neither. 
Don't  you  hould  with  me  there,  mate  ? " 

"I  do,  sir,  I  do." 

The  last  boat  had  rounded  the  castle  rock,  and  its  topsail 
had  diminished  and  disappeared.  On  the  quay  the  song  had 
ended,  and  the  women  and  children  were  turning  their  faces 
with  a  shade  of  sadness  towards  the  town. 

"  Well,"  with  a  deep  universal  inspiration,  "  wasn't  it 
beautiful? "—"  Wasn't  it?"— "Then  what  are  you  crying 
about  ? " 


MAN   AND   GOD.  5I5 

The  girls  laughed  at  each  other  with  wet  eves,  and  went  off 
with  springless  steps.  The  mothers  picked  up  their  children 
and  carried  them  home  whimpering;  and  the  old  men  went 
a^vay  with  drooping  heads  and  shambling  feet. 

When  all  was  gone,  and  the  harbour-master  had  taken  his 
last  look  round,  the  man  with  the  dog  went  to  the  end  of  the 
empty  quay,  and  sat  on  the  mooring  post  that  had  served  for 
the  running  of  the  ropes.  All  was  quiet  enough  now.  The 
voices,  the  singing,  the  laughter  were  lost.  There  was  no 
sound  but  the  gurgle  of  the  ebbing  tide,  which  was  racing  out 
with  the  river's  flow  between  the  pier  and  the  castle  rock. 

The  man  looked  at  his  dog,  stooped  to  it,  gave  it  the  biscuit, 
and  petted  it  and  stroked  it  while  it  munched  its  supper. 
"Dempster,  bogh  !  Dempster!  Getting  ould,  eh  ?  Travelled 
far  together,  haven't  we  ?  Tired  a  bit,  aren't  you  ?  Couldn't 
go  through  another  rough  journey,  anyway.  Hard  to  part, 
though.     Machree  !     Machree  !  " 

He  took  the  stone  out  of  his  pocket,  tied  it  to  one  end  of  the 
string,  made  a  noose  on  the  other  end,  slipped  it  about  the 
dog's  neck,  and  without  warning,  picked  up  the  dog  and  stone 
at  once,  and  dropped  them  over  the  pier.  The  old  creature 
gave  a  piteous  cry  as  it  descended ;  there  was  a  splash,  and 
then — the  racing  of  the  water  past  the  pier. 

The  man  had  turned  away  quickly,  and  was  going  heavily 
along  the  quay. 


XX. 

It  had  been  a  night  of  pain  to  Philip.  All  the  world 
seemed  to  be  conspiring  to  hold  him  back  from  what  he  had 
to  do.  "  Thou  shalt  not  "  was  the  legend  that  appeared  to  be 
written  everywhere.  Four  persons  had  learnt  his  secret, 
and  all  four  seemed  to  call  upon  him  to  hide  it.  First,  the 
Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  who  had  heard  the  divorce  proceedings 
within  closed  doors;  next  Pete,  who  might  have  clamoured 
the  scandal  on  all  hands,  and  plucked  him  down  from  his 
place,  but  had  chosen  to  be  silent  and  to  slip  away  unseen; 
then  Caesar,  whose  awful  self-deception  was  an  assurance  of 
his  secrecy;  and,  iinally.  Auntie  Nan,  wliose  provision  for 
Kate's  material  welfare  had  been  intended  to  prevent  the  ne- 
cessity for  revelation.     All  these  had  seemed  to  say  to  him, 


516  THE  MANXMAN. 

wliether  from  affection  or  from  fear,  "  Hold  your  peace.  Say 
nothing.  The  past  is  the  past;  it  is  dead;  it  does  not  exist. 
Go  on  with  your  career.  It  is  only  beginning.  What  right 
have  you  to  break  it  up  ?  The  island  looks  to  you,  waits  for 
you.     Step  forward  and  be  strong." 

Thank  God,  it  was  too  late  to  be  moved  by  that  temptation. 
Too  late  to  be  bought  by  that  bribe.  Already  he  had  taken 
the  irrevocable  course,  he  had  made  the  irrevocable  step.  He 
could  not  now  go  back. 

But  the  awful  penalty  of  the  island's  undeceiving  !  The 
pain  of  that  moment  when  everybody  would  learn  that  he 
had  deceived  the  whole  world  !  He  was  a  sham— a  whited 
sepulchre.  Every  step  he  had  gone  up  in  his  quick  ascent  had 
been  over  the  body  of  some  one  who  had  loved  him  too  well. 
First  Kate,  who  had  been  the  victim  of  the  Deemstership,  and 
now  Pete,  who  was  paying  the  price  that  made  him  Governor. 

He  could  see  the  darkened  looks  of  the  proud ;  he  could 
hear  the  execration  of  the  disappointed ;  he  could  feel  the  tears 
of  the  true-hearted  at  the  downfall  of  a  life  that  had  looked  so 
fair.  In  the  frenzy  of  that  last  hour  of  trial,  it  seemed  as  if  he 
was  contending,  not  with  man  and  the  world,  but  with  the 
devil,  who  was  using  both  to  make  this  bitter  irony  of  his  posi- 
tion—who was  bribing  him  with  worldly  glory  that  he  might 
damn  his  soul  forever. 

And  therein  lay  a  temptation  that  sat  closer  at  his  side — 
the  temptation  to  turn  his  face  and  fly  away.  It  was  mid- 
night. The  moon  was  shining  on  the  boundless  plain  of  the 
sea.  He  was  in  the  slack  water  of  the  soul,  when  the  ebb  is 
spent,  before  the  tide  has  begun  to  flow.  Oh,  to  leave  every- 
thing behind— the  shame  and  the  glory  together  ! 

It  was  the  moment  when  the  girls  on  Peel  Quay  were  pull- 
ing the  rope  for  the  men  on  the  boats  who  were  ready  to  vote 
for  Chi'istian. 

The  pains  of  sleep  were  yet  greater.  He  thought  he  was  in 
Castletown,  skulking  under  the  walls  of  the  castle.  With  a 
look  up  towards  Parliament  House  and  down  to  the  harbour, 
he  fumbled  his  private  key  into  the  lock  of  the  side  entrance 
to  the  council  chamber.  The  old  caretaker  heard  him  creep- 
down  the  long  corridor,  and  she  came  clattering  out  with  a 
caudle,  shaded  behind  her  hand.  "  Something  I've  forgotten," 
he  said.     "Pardon,  your  Honour,"  and  then  a  deep  courtesy. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  5I7 

He  opened  noiselessly  the  little  door  leading  from  the  council 
chamber  to  the  keep,  but  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  steps  the 
turnkey  challenged  him.  "  Who's  there  ?  Stop  !  " — "  Hush  ! " 
— "  The  Deemster  !  Beg  your  Honour's  pardon." — "  Show  me 
the  female  wards." — ''This  way  your  Honour." — "iJer  cell." 
"Here,  your  Honour." — "The  key;  your  lantern.  Now  go 
back  to  the  guard-room. "  He  was  with  Kate.  "  My  love,  my 
love  ! " — "  My  darling  !  " — "  Come,  let  us  fly  away  from  the 
island.  I  cannot  face  it.  I  thought  I  could,  but  I  cannot. 
I've  got  the  child  too.  Come  ! "  And  then  Kate — "  I  would 
go  anywhere  with  you,  Philip,  anywhere,  anywhere.  I  only 
want  your  love.  But  is  this  worthy  of  a  man  like  you  ? 
Leave  me.  We  have  fallen  too  low  to  drop  into  a  pit  like 
that.  Away  with  you  !  Go  ! "  And  he  slunk  out  of  the  cell, 
before  the  wrathful  love  that  would  save  him  from  himself. 
He,  the  Deemster,  the  Grovernor,  had  slunk  out  like  a  dog. 

It  was  only  a  dream.  When  he  awoke,  the  birds  were 
singing  and  the  day  was  blue  over  the  sea.  The  temptation 
was  past ;  it  was  under  his  feet.  He  could  hesitate  no  longer ; 
his  cup  was  brimming  over;  he  would  drink  it  to  the 
dregs. 

Jem-y-Lord  came  with  his  mouth  full  of  news.  The  town 
was  decorated  with  bunting.  There  was  to  be  a  general  holi- 
day. A  grand  stand  had  been  erected  on  the  green  in  front 
of  the  Court-house.  The  people  were  not  going  to  be  deterred 
by  the  Deemster's  refusals.  He  who  shrank  from  honours 
was  the  more  worthy  of  being  honoured.  They  intended  to 
present  their  new  Governor  with  an  address. 

*'  Let  them — let  them,"  said  Philip. 

Jem  looked  up  inquiringly.  His  master's  face  had  a 
strange  expression. 

"  Shall  I  drive  you  to-day,  your  Excellency  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  lad.     It  may  be  for  the  last  time,  Jemmy." 

What  was  amiss  with  the  Governor  ?  Had  the  excitement 
proved  too  much  for  him  ? 


5lg-  THE  MANXMAN. 


XXI. 


It  was  a  perfect  morniug,  soft  and  fresli,  and  sweet  with 
the  odours  and  the  coloui*s  of  spring.  New  gorse  flashed 
from  the  hedges,  the  violets  peeped  from  the  banks;  over  the 
freshening  green  of  the  fields  the  young  lambs  sported,  and 
the  lark  sang  in  the  thin  blue  air. 

The  town,  as  they  dipped  into  it,  was  full  of  life.  At  the 
turn  of  the  Court-house  the  crowd  was  densest.  A  policeman 
raised  his  hand  in  front  of  the  horses  and  Jem-y-Lord  drew 
up.  Then  the  High  Bailiff  stepped  to  the  gate  and  read  an 
address.  It  mentioned  Iron  Christian,  calling  him  "  The 
Great  Deemster  '* ;  the  town  took  pride  to  itself  that  the  first 
Manx  Governor  of  Man  was  born  in  Ramsey. 

Philip  answered  briefly,  confining  himsolf  to  an  exj^ression 
of  thanks  ;  there  was  great  cheering  and  then  the  carriage 
moved  on.  The  journe}^  thereafter  was  one  long  triumphal 
passage.  At  Sulby  Street,  and  at  Ballaugh  Street,  there  were 
flags  and  throngs  of  people.  From  time  to  time  other  car- 
riages joined  them,  falling  into  line  behind.  The  Bishop  was 
waiting  at  Bishop's  Court,  and  place  was  made  for  his  car- 
riage immediately  after  the  carriage  of  the  Governor. 

At  Tynwald  there  was  a  sweet  and  beautiful  spectacle. 
The  children  of  St.  John's  were  seated  on  the  four  rounds  of 
the  mount,  boys  and  girls  in  alternate  rows,  and  from  that 
spot,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  their  forefathers  for  a  thousand 
years,  they  sang  the  National  Anthem  as  Philip  passed  on  the 
road. 

Tlie  unhappy  man  lay  back  in  his  seat.  His  eyes  filled, 
his  throat  rose.     "  Oh,  for  what  miglit  have  been  !  " 

Under  Harr}^  Delany's  tree  a  company  of  fishermen  were 
waiting  with  a  letter.  It  was  from  their  mates  at  Kinsale. 
They  could  not  be  at  home  that  day,  but  their  hearts  were 
there.  Every  boat  would  fly  her  flag  at  the  masthead, 
and  at  twelve  o'clock  noon  every  Manx  fisherman  on  Irish 
waters  would  raise  a  cheer.  If  the  Irishmen  asked  them  what 
they  meant  by  that,  they  would  answer  and  say,  ''It's  for  the 
fisherman's  friend.  Governor  Philip  Christian." 

The  unhappy  man  was  no  longer  in  pain.  His  agony  was 
beyond  that.  A  sort  of  divine  madness  had  taken  possession 
of  him.     He  was  putting  the  world  and   the   prince  of  the 


MAN  AND  GOD.  51 9 

world  behind  his  back.  All  this  worldly  glory  and  human 
gratitude  was  but  the  temptation  of  Satan.  With  God's  help 
he  would  not  succumb.  He  would  resist.  He  would  triumph 
over  everything-. 

Jem-y-Lo]'d  Iwisted  on  the  box-seat.  "  See,  your  Excel- 
lency !     Listen  ! '' 

The  flags  of  Castletown  were  visible  on  the  Eagle  Tower 
of  the  castle.  Then  there  was  a  multitudinous  murmur.  Fi- 
nally a  great  shout.  ''  Now,  boys  !  Three  times  three  !  Hip, 
hip,  hurrah  ! " 

At  the  entrance  to  the  town  an  evergreen  arch  had  been 
erected.  It  bore  an  inscription  in  Manx  :  "  Dooiney  Vannin, 
Ihiat  myr  /ioiZZoo"— Man  of  Man,  success  as  thou  deservest." 

The  carriage  had  slacked  down  to  a  walk. 

"Drive  quicker,"  cried  Philip. 

"  The  streets  arc  crowded,  your  Excellency,"  said  Jem-y- 
Lord. 

Flags  were  flying  from  every  window,  from  every  roof, 
from  every  lamp-post.  The  people  ran  by  the  carriage  cheer- 
ing.    Their  shout  w^as  a  deafening  uproar. 

Philip  could  not  respond.  "  She  will  hear  it,"  he  thought. 
His  head  dropped.  He  was  picturing  Kate  in  her  cell  with 
the  clamour  of  his  welcome  coming  muffled  through  the  walls. 

They  took  the  road  by  the  harbour.  Suddenly  the  carriage 
stopped.  The  men  were  taking  the  horses  out  of  the  shafts. 
"  No,  no,"  cried  Philip. 

He  had  an  impulse  to  alight,  but  the  carriage  was  moving 
again  in  a  moment.  "It  is  the  last  of  my  punishment,"  he 
thought,  and  again  fell  back.  Then  the  shouting  and  the 
laughter  ran  along  the  quay  with  the  crackle  and  roar  of  a 
fire. 

A  regiment  of  soldiers  lined  the  way  from  the  drawbridge 
to  the  portcullis.  As  the  carriage  drew  up,  they  presented  arms 
in  royal  salute.  At  the  same  moment  the  band  of  the  regi- 
ment inside  the  Keep  played  "God  save  the  QueA." 

The  High  Bailiff  of  the  town  opened  the  carriage-door  and 
presented  an  address.  It  welcomed  the  new  Governor  to  the 
ancient  castle  wherein  his  predecessors  had  been  installed,  and 
took  fresh  assurance  of  devotion  to  the  Crown  from  the  cir- 
cumstance that  one  of  their  own  countrymen  had  been  thought 
worthy  to  represent  it.     No  Manxman  had  ever  been  so  hon- 


520  THE  MANXMAN. 

cured  in  that  island  before  since  the  days  of  the  new  Govern- 
or's own  great  kinsman,  familiarly  and  affectionately  known 
to  all  Manxmen  through  two  centuries  as  Illiam  Dhone  (Brown 
William). 

Philip  replied  in  few  words,  the  cheering  broke  out  afresh, 
the  band  played  again,  and  they  entered  the  castle  by  the  long 
corridor  that  led  to  the  council  chamber. 

In  an  anteroom  the  oflBcials  were  waiting.  They  were  all 
elderly  men  and  old  men,  who  had  seen  long  and  honourable 
service,  but  they  showed  no  jealousy.  The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls 
received  his  former  pupil  with  a  shout  wherein  personal  pride 
struggled  with  respect,  and  affection  with  humility.  Then  the 
Attorney-General  welcomed  him  in  the  name  of  the  Bar,  as 
head  of  the  Judicature,  as  well  as  head  of  the  Legislature,  tak- 
ing joy  in  the  fact  that  one  of  their  own  profession  had  been 
elevated  to  the  highest  office  in  the  Isle  of  Man;  glancing  at 
his  descent  from  an  historic  Manx  line,  at  his  brief  but  distin- 
guished career  as  judge,  which  had  revived  the  best  traditions 
of  judicial  wisdom  and  eloquence,  and  finally  wishing  him 
long  life  and  strength  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  noble  promise 
of  his  young  and  spotless  manhood. 

"Mr.  Attorney-General,"  said  Philip,  "I  will  not  accept 
your  congratulations,  much  as  it  would  rejoice  my  heart  to  do 
so.  It  would  only  be  another  grief  to  me  if  you  were  to  re- 
pent, as  too  soon  you  may,  the  generous  warmth  of  your  re- 
ception." 

There  were  puzzled  looks,  but  the  sage  counsellors  could 
not  receive  the  right  impression;  they  could  only  understand 
the  reply  in  the  sense  that  agreed  with  their  present  feelings. 
"  It  is  beautiful,"  they  whispered,  "  when  a  young  man  of  real 
gifts  is  genuinely  modest." 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Philip,  "  I  must  go  into  my 
room." 

The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  followed  him,  saying — 

"  Ah !  i)ot)r  Tom  Christian  would  have  been  a  proud  man 
this  day — prouder  than  if  the  honour  had  been  his  own — ten 
thousand  thousand  times." 

"  Have  mercy,  have  mercy,  and  leave  me  alone,"  said 
Philip. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you.  Christian,"  said  the  Clerk. 

Philip  put  one  hand  aU'ectionately  on  his  shoulder.     The 


MAN  AND  GOD.  521 

eyes  of  the  robustious  fellow  began  to  blink,  and  he  returned 
to  his  colleagues. 

There  was  a  confused  murmur  beyond  the  farther  wall  of 
the  room.  It  was  the  room  kept  for  the  Deemster  when  he 
held  court  in  the  council  chamber.  One  of  its  two  doors  com- 
municated with  the  bench.  As  usual,  a  constable  kept  this 
door.  The  man  loosened  his  chain  and  removed  his  helmet. 
His  head  was  grey. 

''  Is  the  Court-house  full  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

The  constable  put  his  eye  to  the  eye-hole.  "  Crowded,  your 
Excellency. 

"Keep  the  passages  clear." — "Yes,  your  Excellency." 

"  Is  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  present  ?  " — "  He  is,  your  Excel- 
lency." 

"  And  the  jailor  ? " — "  Downstairs,  your  Excellency." 

"  Tell  both  they  will  be  wanted." 

The  constable  turned  the  key  of  the  door  and  left  the  room. 
Jem-y-Lord  came  puffing  and  perspiring. 

"  The  ex-Governor  is  coming  over  by  the  green,  su*.  He'll 
be  here  in  a  moment." 

"  My  wig  and  gown,  Jemmy,"  said  Philip. 

"  Deemster's  wig,  your  Excellency  ?  " — "  Yes." 

"Last  time  you'll  \vear  it,  sir." 

"  The  last,  indeed,  my  lad." 

There  was  a  clash  of  steel  outside,  followed  by  the  beat  of 
drum. 

"  He's  here,"  said  Jem-y-Lord. 

Philip  listened.  The  rattling  noise  came  to  him  through 
opening  doors  and  reverberating  corridors  like  the  trampling 
of  a  wave  to  a  man  imprisoned  in  a  cave. 

"She'll  hear  it,  too."  That  thought  was  with  him  con- 
stantly. In  his  mind's  eye  he  was  seeing  Kate,  crouching  in 
the  fire-seat  of  the  palace  room  that  was  now  her  prison,  and 
covering  her  ears  to  deaden  the  joyous  sounds  that  broke  the 
usual  silence  of  the  gloomy  walls. 

Jem-y-Lord  was  at  the  eye-hole  of  the  door.  "  He's  coming 
on  to  the  bench,  sir.  The  gentlemen  of  the  council  are  follow- 
ing him,  and  the  Court-house  is  full  of  ladies." 

Philip  was  pacing  to  and  fro  like  a  man  in  violent  agita- 
tion. At  the  other  side  of  the  wall  the  confused  murmur  had 
risen  to  a  sharp  crackle  of  many  voices. 


^^99 


THE  MANXMAN. 


The  constable  came  back  with  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  and 
he  jailor. 

"  Everything  ready,  your  Excellency,"  said  the  Clerk  of 
he  Court. 

The  constable  turned  the  key  of  the  door,  and  laid  his 
land  on  the  knob. 

"  One  moment — give  me  a  moment,"  said  Philip. 

He  was  going  through  the  last  throes  of  his  temptation. 
Something  was  asking  him,  as  if  in  tones  of  indignation,  what 
'ight  he  had  to  bring  people  there  to  make  fools  of  them. 
Vnd  something  was  laughing  as  if  in  mockery  at  the  theatri- 
!al  device  he  had  chosen  for  gathering  together  the  people  of 
•ank  and  station,  and  then  dismissing  them  like  naughty 
;chool-children. 

This  idea  clamoured  loud  in  wild  derision,  telling  him  that 
le  was  posing,  that  he  was  making  a  market  of  his  misfortune, 
hat  he  was  an  actor,  and  that  v.^hatever  the  effect  of  the  sceue 
le  was  about  to  perform,  it  was  unnecessary  and  must  be  con- 
emptible.  "  You  talk  of  your  shame  and  humiliation — no 
itonement  can  wipe  it  out.  You  came  here  prating  to  your- 
lelf  of  blotting  out  the  past— no  act  of  man  can  do  so.  Vain, 
rain,  and  idle  as  well  as  vain  !  Mere  mummery  and  display, 
md  a  blow  to  the  dignity  of  justice  !  " 

Under  the  weight  of  such  torment  the  thought  came  to 
lim  that  he  should  go  through  the  ceremony  after  all,  that  he 
ihould  do  as  the  people  expected,  that  he  should  accept  the 
jrovernorship,  and  then  defy  the  social  ostracism  of  the  island 
)y  making  Kate  his  wife.  "  It's  not  yet  too  late,"  said  the 
empter. 

Philip  stopped  in  his  walk  and  remembered  the  two  letters 
)f  yesterday.     "  Thank  God  !     it  is  too  late,"  he  said. 

He  had  spoken  the  words  aloud,  and  the  officers  in  attend- 
ince  glanced  up  at  him.  Jem-y-Lord  was  behind,  trembling 
md  biting  his  lip. 

It  was  indeed  too  late  for  that  temptation.  And  then  the 
canity  of  it,  the  cruelty  and  insufficiency  of  it  !  He  had  been 
L  servant  of  the  world  long  enough.  From  this  day  forth  he 
neant  to  be  its  master.  No  matter  if  all  the  devils  of  hell 
ihould  laugh  at  him  !  He  was  going  through  with  his  pur- 
pose. There  was  only  one  condition  on  which  he  could  live 
n  the  world— that  he  should  renounce  it.     There  was  only 


MAN   AND   GOD.  523 

one  \Yay  of  renouncing  the  world— to  return  its  wages  and 
strip  off  its  livery.  His  sin  was  not  only  against  Kate,  against 
Pete  ;  it  was  against  the  island,  and  the  island  must  set  him 
free. 

Philip  approached  the  door,  slackened  his  pace  with  an  air 
of  uncertainty  :  at  one  step  from  the  constable  he  stopped. 
He  was  breathing  noisily.  If  the  officers  had  observed  him 
at  that  moment  they  must  have  thought  lie  looked  like  a  man 
going  to  execution.  But  the  constable  gazed  before  him  with 
a  sombre  expression,  held  his  helmet  in  one  hand,  and  the  knob 
of  the  door  in  the  other. 

"  Now,"  said  Pliilip,  with  a  long  inspiration. 

There  was  a  flash  of  faces,  a  waft  of  perfume,  a  flutter  of 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  a  deafening  reverberation.  PhiUp 
was  in  the  Court-house. 


XXII. 

It  was  remarked  that  his  face  was  fearfullj^  worn,  and 
that  it  looked  the  whiter  for  the  white  wig  above  it  and  the 
black  gown  beneath.  His  large  eyes  flamed  as  with  fire. 
"  The  sword  too  keen  for  the  scabbard,"  whispered  somebody. 

There  is  a  kind  of  aloofness  in  strong  men  at  great  mo- 
ments. Nobody  approaches  them.  They  move  onward  of 
themselves,  and  stand  or  fall  alone.  Everybody  in  court  rose 
as  Philip  entered,  but  no  one  offered  his  hand.  Even  the  ex- 
Governor  only  bowed  from  the  Governor's  seat  under  the 
canopy. 

Philip  took  his  customary  place  as  Deemster.  He  was 
then  at  the  right  of  the  Governor,  the  Bishop  being  on  the 
left.  Behind  the  bishop  sat  the  Attorney-General,  and  behind 
Philip  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  The  cheers  that  had  greeted 
Philip  on  his  entrance  ended  with  the  clapping  of  hands,  and 
died  off  like  a  Avave  falling  back  from  the  shingle.  Then  he 
rose  and  turned  to  the  Governor. 

"  I  do  not  know  if  you  are  aware,  your  Excellency,  that 
this  is  Deemster's  Court-day  ? " 

The  Governor  smiled,  and  a  titter  went  round  the  court. 
"We  will  dispense  with  that,"  he  said.     "We  have  better 
business  this  morning." 
o4 


24  THE   MANXMAN. 

"  Excuse  me,  your  Excellency,"  said  Philip  ;  ''  I  am  still 
eemster.  With  your  leave  we  will  do  everything  accord- 
!g  to  rule." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  a  questioning  look,  then  a  cold 
iswer.  "Of  coui"se,  if  you  wish  it;  but  your  sense  of 
ity " 

The  ladies  in  the  galleries  had  ceased  to  flutter  then*  fans, 
id  the  members  of  the  House  of  Keys  vrere  shifting  in  their 
sats  in  the  well  below. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Deemstei'"s  Court  pushed  through  to  the 
)ace  beneath  the  bench.  "  There  is  only  one  case,  your 
honour,"  he  whispered  up. 

"  Speak  out,  sir,"  said  Philip.     ''  What  case  is  it  ? " 

The  Clerk  gave  an  informal  answer.  It  was  the  case  of 
le  young  woman  who  had  attemj^ted  her  life  at  Ramsey,  and 
id  been  kept  at  Her  Majesty's  pleasure. 

"  How"  long  has  she  been  in  prison  ?" — "Seven  weeks,  your 
onour." 

''  G-ive  me  the  book  and  I  will  sign  the  order  for  her  re- 
ase." 

The  book  was  handed  to  the  bench.  Philip  signed  it, 
mded  it  back  to  the  Clerk,  and  said  with  his  face  to  the 
ilor — 

"But  keep  her  until  somebody  comes  to  fetch  her." 

There  had  l^seen  a  cold  silence  during  these  proceedings. 
Hien  they  were  over,  the  ladies  breathed  freely.  "You  re- 
ember  the  case — left  her  husband  and  little  child — divorced 
nee,  I'm  told — a  worthless  person." — "Ah!  yes,  wasn't  she 
*st  tried  the  day  the  Deemster  fell  ill  in  court  ? " — "  Men  are 
o  tender  with  such  creatures." 

Philip  had  risen  again.  "Your  Excellency,  I  have  done 
le  last  of  my  duties  as  Deemster."  His  voice  had  hoarsened, 
e  was  a  worn  and  stricken  figure. 

The  ex  Governor's  w^armth  had  been  som.ewhat  cooled  by 
le  unexpected  interruption.  Nevertheless,  the  pock-marks 
noothed  out  of  his  forehead,  and  he  rose  with  a  smile.  At 
le  same  moment  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  ste])ped  up  and  laid 
ro  books  on  the  de^k  before  him— a  New  Testament  in  a  tat- 
red  leather  binding,  and  the  Liber  Jurnmentonim,  the  Book 
'  Oaths. 

"The  regret  I  feel,"  said  the  ex-Governoi*,  "and  feel  in- 


MAN    AND   GOD.  525 

creasinf^ly,  day  by  day,  at  the  severance  of  the  ties  which  have 
bound  nie  to  this  beautiful  iskind  is  tempered  by  the  satisfac- 
tion I  experience  that  the  choice  of  my  successor  has  fallen 
upon  one  whom  I  know  to  be  a  gentleman  of  powerful  intel- 
lect and  stainless  honour.  He  will  preserve  that  autonomous 
independence  which  has  come  down  to  you  from  a  remote  an- 
tiquitj',  at  the  same  time  tliat  he  will  uphold  the  fidelity  of  a 
people  who  have  always  been  loyal  to  the  Crown.  I  pray  that 
the  blessino^  of  Almighty  God  may  attend  his  administration, 
and  that,  if  the  time  ever  comes  when  he  too  shall  stand  in  the 
position  I  occupy  to-day,  he  may  have  recollections  as  lively 
of  the  support  and  kindness  he  has  met  with,  and  regrets  as 
deep  at  his  separation  from  the  little  Manx  nation  which  he 
leaves  behind." 

Then  the  Governor  took  the  staff  of  office,  and  gave  the 
signal  for  rising.  Everybody  rose.  "  And  now,  sir,"  he  said, 
turning  to  Philip  with  a  smile,  "  to  do  everything,  as  you  say, 
according  to  rule,  let  us  first  take  Her  Majesty's  commission 
of  your  appointment." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Philip  said  in  a 
cold  clear  voice — 

''Your  Excellency,  I  have  no  commission.  The  commis- 
sion which  I  received  I  have  returned.  I  have,  therefore,  no 
right  to  be  installed  as  Governor.  Also,  I  have  resigned  my 
office  as  Deemster,  and,  though  my  resignation  has  not  yet 
been  accepted,  I  am,  in  reality,  no  longer  in  the  service  of  the 
State." 

The  people  looked  at  the  speaker  with  eyes  that  were  full 
of  the  stupefaction  of  surprise.  Somebody  had  risen  at  the 
back  of  the  bench.  It  was  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  as  if  to  touch  Philip  on  the  shoulder. 
Then  he  hesitated  and  sat  down  again. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Council  and  of  the  Keys,"  continued 
Philip,  "you  will  think  you  have  assembled  to  see  a  man  take 
a  leap  into  an  abyss  more  dark  than  death.  That  is  as  it  may 
be.  You  have  a  right  to  an  explanation,  and  I  am  here  to 
make  it.  What  I  have  done  has  been  at  the  compulsion  of 
conscience.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  office  I  hold,  still  less  of 
the  office  that  is  offered  me." 

There  was  a  half-ai'ticulate  interruption  from  behind 
Philip's  chair. 


526  THE   MANXMAX. 

"  Ah !  do  not  think,  old  friend,  that  I  am  dealing  in  vague 
self  depreciation.  I  should  have  preferred  not  to  speak  more 
exactly,  hut  what  must  he,  must  be.  Your  Excellency  has 
spoken  of  my  honour  as  spotless.  Would  to  God  it  were  so ; 
but  it  is  deeply  stained  with  sin."' 

He  stopped,  made  an  effort  to  begin  afresh,  and  stopped 
again.  Then,  in  a  low  tone,  with  measured  utterance,  amid 
breatliless  silence,  he  said — "  I  have  lived  a  double  life.  Be- 
neath the  life  that  you  have  seen  there  has  been  another— 
God  only  knows  how  full  of  w-rongdoing  and  disgrace  and 
shame.  It  is  no  part  of  my  duty  to  involve  others  in  this  con- 
fession. Let  it  be  enough  that  my  career  has  been  built  on 
falsehood  and  robbery,  that  I  have  deceived  the  woman  who 
loved  me  with  her  heart  of  hearts,  and  robbed  the  man  who 
would  have  trusted  me  with  his  soul." 

The  people  began  to  breathe  audibly.  Tiiere  was  the  scrap- 
ing of  a  chair  behind  the  speaker.  The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  had 
risen.     His  florid  face  was  violently  agitated. 

"  May  it  please  youi'  Excellency,"  he  began,  faltering  and 
stammering,  in  a  husky  voice,  ''  it  will  be  within  your  Excel- 
lency's knowledge,  and  the  knowledge  of  every  one  on  the 
island,  that  his  Honour  has  only  jurst  risen  from  a  long  and 
serious  illness,  brought  on  by  overwork,  by  too  zealous  atten- 
tion to  his  duties,  and  that — in  fact,  that — well,  not  to  blink 
the  1)1  ain  truth,  that " 

A  sigh  of  immense  relief  had  passed  over  the  court,  and  the 
Governor,  grown  very  pale,  was  nodding  iu  assent.  But 
Philip  only  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

'*  I  have  been  ill  indeed,''  he  said,  '*  but  not  from  the  cause 
you  speak  of.     The  just  judgment  of  God  has  overtaken  me." 

The  Clerk  of  the  Rolls  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

"  The  moment  came  when  I  had  to  sit  in  judgment  on  my 
own  sin,  the  moment  when  she  who  had  lost  her  honour  in 
trusting  to  mine  stood  in  the  dock  before  me.  I,  who  had 
been  the  first  cause  of  her  misfortunes,  sat  on  the  bench  as  her 
judge.  She  is  now  in  prison  and  I  am  here.  The  same  law 
which  has  punished  her  failing  with  infamy  has  advanced  me 
to  power." 

There  was  an  icy  quiet  in  ilie  court,  such  as  comes  with  the 
first  gleam  of  the  dawn.  By  that  quick  instinct  which  takes 
possession  of  a  crov»'d  at  great  moments,  the  people  understood 


MAN   AND   GOD.  527 

cv^erytliiug — the  impurity  of  tlie  oliaracter  that  had  seemed  so 
pure,  the  nullity  of  the  life  that  had  seemed  so  noble. 

"  When  I  asked  myself  what  there  was  left  to  me  to  do,  I 
could  see  but  one  thing.  It  was  impossible  to  go  on  adminis- 
tering justice,  being  myself  unjust,  and  remembering  that 
higher  bar  before  which  I  too  was  yet  to  stand.  I  must  cease 
to  be  Deemster.  But  that  was  only  my  protection  against  the 
future,  not  my  punishment  for  the  past.  I  could  not  surrender 
myself  to  any  earthly  court,  because  I  was  guilty  of  no  crime 
against  earthly  law.  The  law  cannot  take  a  man  into  tlie 
court  of  the  conscience.     He  must  take  himself  there." 

He  stopped  again,  and  then  said  quietly,  '*  My  sentence  is 
this  open  confession  of  my  sin,  and  renunciation  of  the  w^orldly 
advantages  which  have  been  bought  by  the  suffering  of 
others." 

It  was  no  longer  possible  to  doubt  him.  He  had  sinned, 
and  he  had  reaped  the  reward  of  his  sin.  Those  rewards^  were 
great  and  splendid,  but  he  had  come  to  renounce  them  all. 
The  dreams  of  ambition  were  fulfilled,  the  miracle  of  life  was 
realised,  the  world  was  conquered  and  at  his  feet,  yet  he  was 
there  to  give  up  all.  The  quiet  of  the  court  had  warmed  to  a 
hush  of  awe.  He  turned  to  the  bench,  but  every  face  was 
down.     Then  his  own  eyes  fell. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  Council,  you  who  have  served  the  island 
so  long  and  so  honourably,  perhaps  you  blame  me  for  permit- 
ting you  to  come  together  for  the  hearing  of  this  confession. 
But  if  you  knew  the  temptation  I  was  under  to  fly  away  with- 
out making  it,  to  turn  my  back  on  my  past,  to  shuffle  my  fault 
on  to  Fate,  to  lay  the  blame  on  Life,  to  persuade  myself  that  I 
could  not  have  acted  differently,  you  would  believe  it  was  not 
lightly,  and  God  knows,  not  vainly,  that  I  suffered  you  to  come 
here  to  see  me  mount  my  scaff'old." 

He  turned  back  to  the  body  of  the  court. 

"  My  countrymen  and  countrywomen,  you  who  have  been 
so  much  more  kind  to  me  than  ray  character  justified  or  my 
conduct  merited.  I  say  good-bye  ;  but  not  as  one  who  is  going 
away.  In  conquering  the  im])ulse  to  go  without  confessing,  I 
conquered  the  desire  to  go  at  all.  Here,  where  my  old  life  has 
fallen  to  ruin,  my  new  life  must  be  built  up.  That  is  the  only 
security.  It  is  also  the  only  justice.  On  this  island,  where  my 
fall  is  known,  my  uprising  may  come— as  is  most  right— only 


528  THE   MANXMAN. 

with  bitter  struggle  and  sorrow  and  tears.  But  when  it  comes, 
it  will  come  securely.  It  may  be  in  years,  in  many  years,  but 
I  am  willing  to  wait— I  am  ready  to  labour.  And.  meantime, 
she  who  was  worthy  of  my  highest  honour  will  share  my  low- 
est degradation.  That  is  the  way  of  all  women — God  love  and 
keep  them  I " 

Tlie  exaltation  of  his  tones  infected  everybody. 

''  It  may  be  that  you  think  I  am  to  be  pitied.  There  have 
been  hours  of  my  life  when  I  have  been  deserving  of  pity. 
But  they  have  been  the  hours,  the  dark  hours,  when,  in  the 
prodigality  of  your  gratitude,  you  have  loaded  me  with  dis- 
tinctions, and  a  shadow  has  haunted  me,  saying,  'Philip 
Christian,  they  think  you  a  just  judge— you  are  not  a  just 
judge  ;  they  think  you  an  upright  man — you  are  not  an  up- 
right man.'  Do  not  pity  me  now,  when  the  dark  hours  are 
passed,  w^hen  the  new  life  has  begun,  when  I  am  listening  at 
length  to  the  voice  of  my  heart,  which  has  all  along  been  the 
voice  of  God." 

His  eyes  shone,  his  mouth  was  smiling. 

''  If  you  think  how  narrowly  I  escaped  the  danger  of  letting 
things  go  on  as  they  were  going,  of  covering  up  my  fault,  of 
concealing  my  true  character,  of  Jiving  as  a  sham  and  dying 
as  a  hypocrite,  you  will  consider  me  worthy  of  envy  instead. 
Good-bye  !  good-bye  !     God  bless  you !  " 

Before  any  one  appeared  to  be  aware  that  his  voice  had 
ceased  he  was  gone  from  the  bench,  and  the  Deemster's  chair 
stood  empty.  Then  the  people  turned  and  looked  into  each 
other's  stricken  faces.  They  were  still  standing,  for  nobody 
had  thought  of  sitting  down. 

There  was  no  further  speaking  that  day.  Without  a  word 
or  a  sign  the  Governor  descended  from  his  seat  and  the  pro- 
ceedings came  to  an  end.  Every  one  moved  towards  the  door. 
*'A  great  price  to  pay  for  it,  though,"  thought  the  men. 
"  How  he  must  have  loved  her,  after  all,"  thought  the  women. 

At  that  moment  the  big  Queen  Elizabeth  clock  of  the  Cas- 
tle was  striking  twelve,  and  the  fishermen  on  Irish  waters 
were  raising  a  cheer  for  their  friend  at  home.  A  loud  detona- 
tion rang  out  over  the  town.  It  was  the  report  of  a  gun. 
There  was  another,  and  then  a  third.  The  shots  were  from  a 
steamer  that  was  passing  the  bay. 

Philip  remembered— it  was  Pete's  last  farewell. 


MAN  AND  GOD.  599 


XXIII. 


Half  an  hour  later  the  Keep,  the  courtyard,  and  the  pas- 
sage to  the  portculhs  were  filled  with  an  immense  crowd. 
Ladies  thronged  the  two  flights  of  external  steps  to  the  pi'lp,- 
oners'  chapel  and  the  council  chamber.  Men  had  climbed  as 
high  as  to  the  battlements,  and  were  looking  down  over  the 
beetle-browed  walls.  All  eyes  were  on  the  door  to  the  debtors' 
side  of  the  prison,  and  a  path  from  it  was  being  kept  clear. 
.  The  door  opened  and  Philip  and  Kate  came  out.  There 
was  no  other  exit,  and  they  must  have  taken  it.  He  was  hold- 
ing her  firmly  by  the  hand,  and  half -leading,  half-drawing  her 
along.  Under  the  weight  of  so  many  eyes,  her  head  was  held 
down,  but  those  who  were  near  enough  to  see  her  face  knew 
that  her  shame  was  swallowed  up  ia  happiness  and  her  fear 
in  love.  Philip  was  like  a  man  transfigured.  The  extreme 
pallor  of  his  cheeks  was  gone,  his  step  was  firm,  and  his  face 
was  radiant.  It  was  the  connnon  remark  that  never  before 
had  he  looked  so  strong,  so  buoyant,  so  noble.  This  was  the 
hour  of  his  triumph,  not  that  within  the  walls  ;  this,  when  his 
sin  was  confessed,  when  conscience  had  no  power  to  appal 
him,  when  the  w^orld  and  the  pride  of  the  world  w^ere  beneath 
his  feet,  and  he  was  going  forth  from  a  prison  cell,  hand  in 
hand  with  the  fallen  woman  by  his  side,  to  face  the  future 
with  their  bankrupt  lives. 

And  she  ?  She  was  sharing  his  fiery  ordeal.  Before  her 
outraged  sisters  and  all  the  world  she  was  walking  with  him 
in  the  depth  of  his  humiliation,  at  the  height  of  his  conquest, 
at  the  climax  of  his  shame  and  glory. 

Once  for  a  moment  she  halted  and  stumbled  as  if  under  the 
hot  breath  that  was  beating  upon  her  head.  But  he  put  his 
arm  about  her,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  strong.  The  sun 
dipped  down  from  the  great  tower  on  to  his  upturned  face, 
and  his  eyes  were  glistening  through  their  tears. 


'JHE  END. 


A 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


CONVENTIONAL  BOHEMIAN.  By  Edmund 
Pendleton,  author  of  "One  Woman's  Way,"  etc.  i2n-.o. 
Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

**'l'he  vividly  drawn  characters  of  this  interesting  and  thoughtful  novel  are  the 
work  of  a  man  gifted  with  genius.  .  .  .  We  warmly  acknowledge  that  he  has  given  us 
a  rare  and  exquisite  literary  gem." — Baltimore  A7}ic?ican. 

"Mr.  Pendleton  shows  power  of  invention  and  skill  in  dramatic  arrangement." — 
New  York  Tribune. 


A 


VIRGINIA  INHERITANCE.  By  Edmund 
Pendleton,  author  of  "A  Conventional  Bohemian,"  "One 
Woman's  Way,"  etc.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  There  is  a  warm  sympathy  between  the  author  and  his  characters  and  scenes  which 
communicates  itself  to  the  reader," — Neiv  York  Evening  Post. 

"  The  author  evidently  writes  from  careful  observation." — North  Americnn  Revieiv. 

"  Will  be  appreciated  by  those  who  like  a  delicate  but  vigorous  style  and  a  keen 
sense  of  humor,  joined  to  a  rare  gift  of  portraiture." — Boston  Transcript. 

ROM  DUSK  TO  DAWN.  By  Katharine 
Pearson  Woods,  author  of  "  Metzerott,  Shoemaker."  i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Rarely,  indeed,  does  an  author  attain  to  such  wide  prominence  in  so  short  a  time 
as  did  Katharine  Pearson  Woods  on  the  appearance  of  her  somewhat  socialistic  novel 
called  '  Metzerott,  Shoemaker.'  That  story,  however,  with  all  its  absorbing  power, 
gave  only  the  faintest  evidence  of  the  real  strength  that  has  hitherto  remained  latent, 
but  which  is  now  so  wonderfully  developed  in  her  latest  story,  '  From  Dusk  to  Dawn.'  " 
— Baltimore  A  merican. 

"The  author  has  not  only  successfully  interwoven  discussion  upon  religion  and  the 
occult  sciences,  but  she  has  handled  them  throughout  in  a  masterly  manner,  predicating 
her  entire  familiarity  with  them." — Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"If  a  novel  may  be  called  orthodox,  this  book  is  entitled  to  come  under  thrt 
classification." — San  Francisco  Call. 


P 


c 


'APT'N  DAVY'S  HONEYMOON.  A  Manx 
Yarn.  By  Hall  Caine,  author  of  "The  Deemster,"  "The 
Scape-Goat,"  etc.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  new  departure  by  this  author.  Unlike  his  previous  works,  this  little  tale  is  al- 
most wholly  humorous,  with,  however,  a  current  of  pathos  underneath.  It  is  not  always 
that  an  author  can  succeeti  equally  well  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy,  but  it  looks  as 
though  Mr.  Hall  Caine  would  be  one  of  the  exceptions." — Londo7i  Literary  World. 

"  Constructed  with  great  ingenuity.  The  story  is  full  of  delight." — Boston  Adver- 
tiser. 

"A  rollicking  story  of  Manx  life,  well  told.  .  .  .  Mr.  Caine  has  really  written  no 
book  superior  in  character-drawing  and  dramatic  force  to  this  little  comedy." — Boston 
Beacon. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  the  author  of  'The  Deemster'  in  a  brightly  humorous  little 
story  like  this  ...  It  .shows  the  same  observation  of  Manx  character  and  much  of 
the  same  artistic  skill." — Philadelphia  Times. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


NOVELS  BY  MAARTEN  MAARTENS. 

^HE  GREATER  GLORY.     A  Story  of  High  Life. 
-*■        By   Maarten  ^L\artens,    author  of  "  God's   Fool,"    "  Joost 
Avelingh,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Until  the  Appletons  discovered  the  merits  of  Maarten  Maartens,  the  foremost  of 
Dutch  novelists,  it  is  doubtful  if  many  American  readers  knew  that  there  were  Dutch 
novelists.  His  '  God's  Fool'  and  'Joost  Avelingh'  made  for  him  an  American  reputa- 
tion. To  our  mind  this  just  published  work  of  his  is  his  best.  .  .  .  He  is  a  master  of 
epigram,  an  artist  in  description,  a  prophet  in  insight." — Bcston  Advertiser. 

"  It  would  take  several  columns  to  give  any  adequate  idea  of  the  superb  way  in 
which  the  Dutch  novelist  has  developed  his  theme  and  wrought  out  one  of  the  n:<>st 
impressive  stories  of  the  period.  ...  It  belongs  to  the  small  class  of  novels  which 
one  can  not  afford  to  neglect." — San  Fratutsco  Chronicle. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  stands  head  and  shoulders  above  the  average  novelist  of  the 
day  in  intellectual  subtlety  and  imaginative  power." — Boston  Beacon. 

r^OnS   EOOL.     By   Maarten    Maartens.       i2mo. 
^     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Throughout  there  is  an  epigrammatic  force  which  would  make  palatable  a  less 
interesting  story  of  human  lives  or  one  less  deftly  told." — London  Saturday  Rczie-w. 

"  Perfectly  easy,  graceful,  humorous.  .  .  .  The  author's  skill  in  character-drawing 
is  undeniable." — London  Chronicle. 

"A  remarkable  work." — Xeiv  York  Times. 

"Maarten  Maartens  has  secured  a  firm  footing  in  the  eddies  of  current  literature. 
.  .  .  Pathos  deepens  into  tragedy  in  the  thrilling  story  of '  God's  Fol'1.'" — Phiiadel 
phia  Ledger. 

"  Its  preface  alone  stamps  the  author  as  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists  of 
to-day." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  brilliant.  .  .  .  The  interest  never  lags;  the  stjie  is 
realistic  and  intense;  and  there  is  a  constantly  underlying  current  of  subtle  humor. 
...  It  is,  in  short,  a  book  which  no  student  of  modern  literature  should  fail  to  read." 
— Boston  Times. 

"  A  story  of  remarkable  interest  and  point." — JVetv  York  Observer, 


7 


'COST  AVELINGH.      By  Maarten    Maartens. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50, 

"So  unmistakably  good  as  fo  induce  the  hone  that  an  acquaintance  with  the  Dutch 
literature  of  fiction  may  soon  become  more  general  among  us." — London  Morning 
Post. 

"  In  scarcely  any  of  the  sensational  novels  of  the  day  will  the  rcider  find  more 
nature  or  more  human  w2X\x<c^."  —  London  Standard. 

"A  novel  of  a  ver>' high  Xy\>&.  At  once  strongly  realistic  and  powerfully  ideal- 
istic."— London  Liifrary  World. 

"  Full  of  local  color  and  rich  in  quaint  phraseology  and  suggestion." — London 
Teleg-i  aph. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  is  a  capital  story-teller." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"Our  English  writers  of  fiction  will  have  to  look  to  their  laurels  " — Birmingham 
Daily  Post.  

Nc-.v  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO..  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


A 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

Books  by  Mrs.  Everard  Cotes  (Sara  Jeannette  Duncan). 

DAUGHTER  OF  TO-DAY.     A  Novel.     i2mo. 

Cloth,  I1.50. 

"  The  book  is  well  worth  the  attention  it  demands,  and  if  the  conviction  at  last 
slowly  dawns  upon  the  reader  that  it  contains  a  purpose,  it  is  one  which  has  been  pro- 
duced by  the  inevitable  law  of  reaction,  and  is  cleverly  manipulated." — London 
A  thencEUfn . 

"This  novel  is  a  strong  and  serious  piece  of  work  ;  one  of  a  kind  that  is  getting  too 
rare  in  these  days  of  universal  crankiness.  The  heroine — for  we  suppose  that  bllfrida 
is  entitled  to  that  place  despite  the  superior  attractions  for  Kendal  of  Janet  Cardiff — 
reminds  one  not  unremotely  df  Mr.  Hardy's  women." — Boston  Courier. 

"  A  new  and  capital  story,  full  of  quiet,  happy  touches  of  humor." — Philadelphia 
Press. 


A 


SOCIAL  DEPARTURE:    How  Orthodocia  and  I 

Went  Round  the   World  by  Ourselves.     With  iii   Illustrations 

by  F.  H.  TowNSEND.     i2mo.     Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.75. 

"Widely  read  and  praised  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific,  with  scores  of 

illustrations  which  fit  the  text  exactly  and  show  the  mind  of  artist  and  writer  in  unison." 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  another  book  can  be  found  so  thoroughly  amusing 
rom  beginning  to  end." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  brighter,  merrier,  more  entirely  charming  book  would  be,  indeed,  difficult  to 
find." — St,  Louis  Repiibiic. 

/JN  AMERICAN  GIRL  IN  LONDON.  With  80 
-^^  Illustrations  by  F.  H.  Townsend.  i2mo.  Paper,  75  cents; 
cloth,  $1.50. 

"One  of  the  most  naive  and  entertaining  books  of  the  season." — Neiv  York  Ob- 
server. 

"The  racliiess  and  breeziness  which  made  'A  Social  Departure,'  by  the  same 
author,  last  season,  the  best-read  and  most-talked  of  book  of  travel  for  many  a  year, 
permeate  the  new  book,  and  appear  between  the  hues  of  eveiy  page." — Brooklyn 
Stan  da  rd-  Union. 

"  So  sprightly  a  book  as  this,  on  life  in  London  as  observed  by  an  American,  has 
never  before  been  written." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"Overrunning  with  cleverness  and  good-will." — Ne^v  York  Commercial  Adver- 
tiser, 

y^HE    SIMPLE    ADVENTURES    OF  A   MEM- 

J-       SAHIB.     With   37  Illustrations  by  F.  PI.  Townsend.       i2mo. 
Cloth,  I1.50. 

"  It  is  like  traveling  without  leaving  one's  armchair  to  read  it.  Miss  Duncan  has 
the  descriptive  and  narrative  gift  in  large  measure,  and  she  brines  vividly  before  us 
the  street  scenes,  the  interiors,  the  bewilderingly  queer  natives,  the  gayeties  of  die 
Engli.sh  colony." — Philadelpfiia  Telegraph. 

"Another  witty  and  delightful  hook."— Philadelphia  Times. 


New  York  :   D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


T 


F 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
HANDY  VOLUMES  OF   FICTION. 

Each,  i2mo,  boards,  with  special  design,  50  cents. 

OURMALIN'S      TIME      CHEQUES.       By   F. 

Anstey,  author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "  The  Giant's  Robe,"  etc. 

Mr.  Anstey  has  done  nothing  more   original  or  fantastic  with  more  success." — 
The  Nation. 

ROM  SHADOW  TO  SUNLIGHT  By  the 
Marquis  of  Lorne. 

"In  these  days  of  princely  criticism —that  is  to  say,  criticism  of  princes — it  is  re- 
freshing to  meet  a  realiy  good  bic  of  aristocratic  literary  work." — Chicago  Tribune. 

/JDOPTING    AN    ABANDONED    FARM.      By 
-^^    Kate  Sanborn. 

"  A  sunny,  pungent,  humorous  sketch." — Chicago  Times. 

N  THE  LAKE  OF  L  UCERNE,  and  other  Stories. 
By  Beatrice  Whitby,  author  of  "  A  Matter  of  Skill,"  "  The 
Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick,"  etc. 

"Six  short  stories  carefully  and  conscientiously  finished,  and  told  with  the  graceful 
ease  of  the  practiced  raconteur."— Literary  Digest. 

EOPLE  A  T  P  ISO  AH.     By  Edwin  W.  Sanborn. 

'  a  most  amusing  extravaganza."— T/^^  Critic. 

R.    FORTNER'S    MARITAL    CLAIMS,    and 
other  Stories.     By  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston. 


o 


F 
M 

"  When  the  last  stor^'  is  finished  we  feel,  in  imitation  of  Oliver  Twist,  like  asking 
for  more." — Public  Opinion. 

r^RAMERCY  PARK.      A   Story  of  New  York.     By 
^^     John  Seymour  Wood,  author  of  "  An  Old  Beau,"  etc. 

"  a  realistic  story  of  New  York  Ufe,  vividly  drawn,  full  of  brilliant  sketches."— .fft^j- 
ton  Advertiser. 

TALE    OF    TWENTY-FIVE    HOURS.      By 
Brander  Matthews  and  George  H.  Jessop. 

"The  reader  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  tragedy  ;  but  it  is  tragedy  ending  in 
comedy.     The  story  is  exceptionally  well  told." — Boston  Traveller. 

LITTLE   NORSK ;   or,    Or  Fafs   Flaxen.      By 
Hamlin  Garland,  author  of  "  Main  Traveled  Roads,"  etc. 

"There  is  nothing  in  story  telling  literature  to  excel  the  naturalness,  pathos  hu- 
mor, and  homelike  interest  with  which  the  little  heroine's  development  is  traced.  — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. ^ 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


A 


A 


D.  APPLETON  Sa  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
HANDY    VOLUMES    OF    FICTION. 

^'ach,  i2mo,  flexible  cloth,  with  special  design,  75  cents. 

/JBANDONING  AN  ADOPTED  FARM.  By 
■^^-    Kate  Sanborn,  author  of  "Adopting  an  Abandoned  Farm,"  etc. 

As  a  promoter  of  good  spirits,  a  contributor  to  the  gayety  of  nations,  Miss  Kate 
Sanborn  has  gained  a  most  enviable  place  among  the  writers  of  the  day.  Everjbody 
laughed  over  her  "  Adoption  "  of  her  farm.  Her  "  Abandonment  "  is,  if  possible,  more 
vivacious  and  entertaining. 

RS.  LIMBER'S  RAFFLE ;   or,  A  Church  Fair 
and  its   Victims.     By  William  Allen  Butler. 

This  brilliant  little  satire,  by  the  author  of  "  Nothing  to  Wear,"  appears  nov/  under 
his  name,  in  a  revised  and  enlarged  form. 

HTHE  PURPLE  LIGHT  OF  LOVE.     By  Henry 

-*        GoELET  McViCKAR,  author  of  "A  Precious  Trio,"  etc. 

"A  novel  that  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  %A'ithits  clever  Eketches  of  charac- 
ter."— Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"7^ HE    TRANSLATION    OF  A    SAVAGE.      By 
■^      Gilbert  Parker. 

"  Unique  in  plot  and  subject,  and  Aolds  the  interest  from  the  first  page  to  the  last." 
— Detroit  Free  Press. 


M 


T 


HE    FAIENCE     VIOLIN.       By    Champfleury. 


"The  style  is  happy  throughout,  the  humorous  parts  being  well  calculated  to  bring 
smiles,  while  we  can  hardly  restrain  our  tejirs  when  the  poor  enthusiast  goes  to  excesses 
that  have  a  teach  of  pathos." — Albany  Times^Ujiion. 


T 


RUE  RICHES.     By  Francois  Coppee. 


"Delicate  as  an  apple  blossom,  with  its  limp  cover  of  pale  green  and  its  stalk  of 
golden-rod,  is  this  little  volume  containing  two  stories  by  Francois  Copp6e.  The  tales 
are  charmingly  told,  and  their  setting  is  an  artistic  delight." — 1  hiladel/hia  BitUetiii. 

/I  TRUTHFUL  WOMAN  IN  SOUTHERN 
-'^    CAUFORNIA.     By   Kate  Sanborn. 

"The  veracious  writer  considers  the  pros  of  the  '  glorious  climate'  of  California, 
and  then  she  gives  the  cons.  .  .  .  The  book  is  sprightly  and  amiably  entertaining.  The 
descriptions  have  the  true  Sanborn  touch  of  vitality  and  humor." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

/J  BORDER  LEANDER.  By  Howard  Seely, 
■^^'     author  of  "  A  Nymph  of  the  West,"  etc. 

"  We  confess  to  a  great  liking  for  the  tale  Mr.  Seely  tells.  ,  .  .  There  are  pecks  of 
trouble  ere  the  devoted  lovers  secure  the  tying  of  their  love-knot,  and  Mr.  Seely  de- 
scribes them  all  with  a  Texan  flavor  that  is  refreshing." — N.  Y.  'J'i?nes. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

A  JOURNEY  IN  OTHER    WORLDS.      A   Ro^ 
-^^    mance  of  the  Future.     By  John  Jacob  Astor,     With  9  full- 
page  Illustrations  by  Dan  Beard.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"An  interesting  and  cleverly  devised  book.  .  .  .  No  lack  of  imagination.  .  .  , 
Shows  a  skillful  and  wide  acquaintance  with  scientific  facts."— JW'w  York  Herald. 

"  The  author  speculates  cleverly  and  daringly  on  the  scientific  advance  of  the  earth, 
and  he  revels  in  the  physical  luxuiiance  of  Jupiter;  but  he  also  lets  his  imagination 
travel  through  spiritual  realms,  and  evidently  delights  in  mystic  speculation  quite  as 
much  as  In  scientific  investigation.  If  he  is  a  follower  of  Jules  Verne,  he  has  not  forgot- 
ten also  to  study  the  philosophers." — New  1  or/;  Tribune. 

"A  beautiful  example  of  typographical  art  and  the  bookmaker's  skill.  ...  To 
appreciate  the  story  one  must  read  it."— New  York  Comviercial  Advertiser. 

"The  date  of  the  events  nanated  in  this  book  is  supposed  to  be  2cxdo  a.  d.  The 
inhabitants  of  North  America  have  increased  mightily  in  numbers  and  power  and 
knowledge.  It  is  an  age  of  marvelous  scientific  attainments.  Flying  machines  have 
long  been  in  common  use,  and  finally  a  new  power  is  discovered  called  '  apergy,' 
the  reverse  of  gravitation,  by  which  people  are  able  to  fly  off  into  space  in  any  direc- 
tion, and  at  what  speed  they  please." — New  York  Sun. 

"The  scientific  romance  by  John  Jacob  A.'-tor  is  more  than  likely  to  secure  a  dis- 
tinct popular  success,  and  achieve  widespread  vogue  both  as  an  amusing  and  interest- 
esting  story,  and  a  thoughtful  endeavor  to  prophesy  some  of  the  triumphs  which  science 
is  destined  to  win  by  the  year  2000.  The  book  has  been  written  with  a  purple,  and 
tliat  a  higher  one  than  the  mere  spinning  of  a  highly  imaginative  yarn.  Mr.  Astor  has 
been  engaged  upon  the  book  for  over  two  years,  and  has  brought  to  bear  upon  it  a 
great  deal  of  hard  work  in  the  way  of  scientific  research,  of  which  he  has  been  very  fond 
ever  since  he  entered  Harvard.  It  is  admirably  illustrated  by  Dan  Beard." — Mail  and 
Express. 

"  Mr.  Astor  has  himself  almost  all  the  qualities  imaginable  for  making  the  science  of 
astronomy  popular.  He  knows  the  learned  maps  of  the  astrologers.  He  knows  the 
work  of  Copernicus.  He  has  made  calculations  and  observations.  He  is  enthusiastic, 
and  the  spectacular  does  not  frighten  \i\xa.."—New  York  Times. 

"The  work  will  remind  the  reader  very  much  of  Jules  Verne  in  its  general  plan  of 
using  scientific  facts  and  speculation  as  a  skeleton  on  which  to  hang  the  romantic 
adventures  of  the  central  figures,  who  have  all  the  daring  ingenuity  and  luck  cf  Mr. 
Verne's  heroes.  Mr.  Astor  uses  histoiy  to  point  out  what  in  his  opinion  science  may 
be  expected  to  accomplish.     It  is  a  romance  with  a  purpose." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  The  romance  contains  many  new  and  striking  developments  of  the  possibilities 
of  science  hereafter  to  be  explored,  but  the  volume  is  intensely  interesting,  bntli  as  a 
product  of  imagination  and  an  illustration  of  the  ingenious  and  original  application  of 
science." — RocJicster  Herald. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  «&  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


M 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


ANY  INVENTIONS.     By  Rudyard    Kipling. 

Containing  fourteen  stories,  several  of  which  are  now  pub- 
lished for  the  first  time,  and  two  poems.  i2mo,  427  pages. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  reader  turns  from  its  pages  with  the  conviction  that  the  author  has  no  supe- 
'dor  to-day  in  animated  narrative  and  virility  of  style.  He  remains  master  of  a  powoi- 
II  which  none  of  his  contemporaries  approach  hirn — the  ability  to  select  out  of  countless 
details  the  few  vital  ones  which  create  the  finished  picture.  He  knows  how,  mih  a 
phrase  or  a  word,  to  make  you  see  his  characters  as  he  sees  them,  to  make  you  feci 
the  full  meaning  of  a  dramatic  situation." — New  York  Iribu-ne. 

"'Many  Inventions'  will  confirm  Mr.  Kipling's  reputation.  .  .  .  We  would  cite 
with  pleasure  sentences  from  almost  every  page,  and  extract  incidents  from  almost 
every  story.  But  to  what  end  ?  Here  is  the  completest  book  that  Mr.  Kipling  has  yet 
given  us  in  workmanship,  the  weightiest  and  most  humane  in  breadth  of  view." — 
'Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  powers  as  a  story-teller  are  evidently  not  diminishing.  We  advise 
everybody  to  buy  '  Many  Inventions,'  and  to  profit  by  some  of  the  best  entertainment 
that  modern  fiction  has  to  oflTer." — Neiv  York  Situ. 

'"  Many  Inventions'  will  be  welcomed  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 
.  .  .  Every  one  of  the  stories  bears  the  imprint  of  a  master  who  conjures  up  incident 
as  if  by  magic,  and  who  portrays  character,  scenerj',  and  feeling  with  an  ease  which  is 
only  exceeded  by  the  boldness  of  force." — Bosto)t  Globe. 

"The  book  will  get  and  hold  the  closest  attention  of  the  reader." — American 
Bookseller. 

"  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  place  in  the  world  of  letters  is  unique.  He  sits  quite  aloof 
and  alone,  the  incomparable  and  inimitable  master  of  the  exquisitely  fine  art  of  short- 
storj'  writing.  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  perhaps  written  several  tales  wliich 
match  the  run  of  Mr.  Kipling's  work,  but  the  best  of  Mr.  Kipling's  tales  are  matchless, 
and  his  latest  collection,  'Many  Inventions,'  contains  several  such." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"Of  late  essays  In  fiction  the  work  of  Kipling  can  be  compared  to  only  three — 
Bl.^ckmore's  '  Lorna  Doone,'  Stevenson's  marvelous  sketch  of  Villon  in  the  'New 
Arabian  Nights,' and  Thomas  Hardy's 'Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.'  .  .  .  It  is  probably 
owing  to  this  extreme  care  that  '  Many  Inventions  '  is  undoubtedly  Mr.  Kipling's  best 
book." — Chicago  Post. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  style  is  too  well  known  to  American  readers  to  require  introduction, 
but  it  can  scarcely  be  amiss  to  say  there  is  not  a  story  in  this  collection  that  does  not 
more  than  repay  a  perusal  of  them  all." — Baltimore  American. 

"  As  a  writer  of  short  stories  Rudyard  Kipling  is  a  genius.  He  has  had  imitators, 
but  they  have  not  been  successful  in  dimming  the  luster  of  his  achievements  by  con- 
trast. .  .  .  'Many  Inventions'  is  the  title.  And  they  are  inventions— entirely  origi- 
nal in  incident,  ingenious  in  plot,  and  siarding  by  their  boldness  and  force." — Kcclicster 
Herald. 

"How  clever  he  is!  This  must  always  be  the  first  thought  on  reading  such  a 
collection  of  Kipling's  stories.  Here  is  art — art  of  the  most  consummate  sort  Com- 
pared with  this,  the  stories  of  our  brightest  young  writers  become  commonplace."—* 
Ne-M  York  Evangelist. 

"  Taking  the  group  as  a  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  the  execution  is  up  to  his  best 
in  the  past,  while  two  or  three  sketches  surpass  in  muncled  strength  and  vividness  ol 
imagination  anything  else  he  has  done." — Hartford  Conrant. 

"fifteen  more  extraordinary  .sketches,  without  a  ting«»  of  sensation.alism,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find.  .  .  .  Kvcry  one  has  an  individuality  of  its  own  which  fascinates  tl.'» 
reader." — Boston  Times. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

DENEFITS  FORGOT.  By  Wolcott  Balestier, 
J-^  author  of  "  Reffey,"  "  A  Common  Stoty,"  etc.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.50. 

"  A  credit  to  American  literature  and  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  author.'' 
— Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  author  places  his  reader  at  the  very  pulse  of  the  human  machine  when  that 
machine  is  throbbing  most  tumultuously." — London  Chronicle. 

"  The  author  manages  a  difficult  scene  in  a  masterly  way,  and  his  style  is  brilliant 
and  finished." — B:iffalo  Courier. 

"  An  ambitious  work.  .  .  .  The  author's  style  is  clear  and  graceful." — New  York 
Times. 

"  Mr.  Balestier  has  done  some  excellent  literary  work,  but  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
pronouncing  this,  his  latest  work,  by  far  his  best." — Boston  AUvertiser. 

jr\  UFFELS.    By  Edward  Eggleston,  author  of  "  The 
•*-^     Faith  Doctor,"   "  Roxy,"    "  The    Hoosier   Schoolmaster,"   etc. 
i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  collection  of  stories  each  of  which  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton at  his  best." — Baltimore  A)neric  :n. 

"  l>estin;d  to  become  very  popular.  The  stories  are  of  infinite  variety.  All  are 
pleasing,  ev^ii  fascinating,  studies  of  the  character,  lives,  and  manners  of  the  periods 
with  which  they  deal." — Fhiladelphia  Item. 

^HE  FAITH  DOCTOR.     By  Edward  Eggleston, 
-»          author  of  •'  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "  The  Circuit  Rider," 
etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 
"One  o^the  novels  of  the  decade." — Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 
"  The  author  of  '  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster'  hns   enhanced  his  reputation  by  this 
beautiful  and  touching  study  of  the  character  of  a  girl   to  love  whom  proved  a  liberal 
education  to  both  of  her  a.dnwe'Li."  ^  Londo}i  Athencsutn. 

"  '  The  Faith  Doctor'  is  worth  readiig  for  its  style,  its  wit,  and  its  humor,  and  not 
less,  we  may  add,  for  its  pathos. "^Z^i^wt/i?  i  Spectator. 

"  Much  skill  is  sho-.vn  by  the  author  in  making  these  'fads'  the  basis  of  a  novel  of 
great  interest.  .  .  .  One  w!io  trie?  to  keep  in  the  current  of  good  novel-reading  must 
certainly  find  time  to  read  '  The  Faith  Doctor.'  " — Buffalo  Cot)uiiercial. 


L 


A  BELLA  "  AND  OTHERS.      By  Egerton  Cas- 
tle, author  of  "  Consequences."    Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $i.co. 

"The  stories  will  be  welcomed  with  a  sense  of  refreshing  pungency  by  readers 
who  have  been  cloyed  by  a  too  long  succession  of  insipid  sweetness  and  familiar 
incident." — London  A thenceuvt. 

"The  author  is  2;ifted  with  a  lively  fancy,  and  the  clever  plots  he  has  devised  gain 
greatly  in  interest,  thatks  to  the  unfanjiliar  surroundings  in  which  the  action  for  the 
most  part  takes  place." — London  Literary  IVorld. 

"  Eight  stories,  all  exhibiting  notable  origina'ity  in  concep-ion  and  mastery  of  art, 
the  first  two  illustrating  ihem  best.  They  add  a  dramatic  power  that  makes  them 
masterpieces.  Both  belong  to  the  perio  i  when  fencing  was  most  skillful,  and  illustrate 
its  practice." — Boston  Globe. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO..  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recaU. 


^ 


"3  T(hum 


'^H 


OCT  a   4  74 


7  1975  7  9 


<k^^ 


RBLCBL   ji 


iMUiLdm 


^ 


CIRCULATION  Pllffi 


LD21A-60m-6,'69 

(J90968l0)47fr-A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


r 


939684 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


•    ':■■■■,<  ir. 


■;-;,V, 


•:'■;■>.  '■-':'^.,"-:'^''',-'-;  ;"^-- (;--"v^ 

•■:;;.  ■;^/.i/-.:-:;'Vv/-.:-:/t'';,i 

;•,  / .  ,•  .  V-  -^  ^'f>~.  -.    V',',  :-:vv  .    1 

,  ..       -  .      ■'■  f  ■'■'  '••     ■»];•'■ 'U.  ■'-,• 

y..\'                       ■  ,>..-*■  '  :'       1.   ".^^1^^ 

,;,;;•-■■..>./-.  ?^JBH 

;;>:"y.:-a::^%M 

.7^:^'-Af4?;H« 

v--;,;;^i.M 

';r,^^B 

''':>v^^H 

,•/  vi/^'JiiPI 

sHi^^^H 

^-'■^^^^1 

'  v<-'<;t«^^^^H 

i.v,Hi^H 

-  iLi^f^M 

'  •  >>. 


\  ^<- 


